PLAYS  BY 
GEORGE  MIDDLETON 

UNIFORM  WITH  THIS  VOLUME 
NOWADAYS. 

A  Three-Act  Contemporaneous  Comedy.     $1.20 

THE  ROAD  TOGETHER. 

A  Four-Act   Contemporaneous  Drama.     $1.20 

EMBERS  and  Other  One-Act  Plays. 

Including   The    Failures,    The    Gargoyle.    In   His 
House,   Madonna,  The  Man  Masterful.     $1.35 

TRADITION  and  Other  One-Act  Plays. 

Including    On    Bail,    Their    Wife,    Waiting,    The 
Cheat  of  Pity,  Mothers.     $1.35 

POSSESSION  and  Other  One-Act  Plays. 

Including    The    Groove,    A    Good    Woman,    The 
Black  Tie,  Circles,  The  Unborn.     $1.35 

MASKS  and  Other  One-Act  Plays. 

Including  Jim's  Beast,  Tides,  Among  the  Lions, 
The   Reason,   The  House.     $1.60. 

CRIMINALS.    A  One-Act  Play. 

(Published  by  B.  W.  Huebsch,  N.  Y.     $.50) 

(For  critical  comments  see  back  pages  of 
this  volume) 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


MASKS 


WITH 


JIM'S  BEAST,  TIDES,  AMONG  THE  LIONS, 
THE  REASON,  THE  HOUSE 

ONE- ACT  PLAYS  OF  CONTEMPORARY  LIFE 


BY 

GEORGE  MIDDLETON 


"We  all  wear  many  masks" 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
1920 


COPYRIGHT  1920 

BY 
GEORGE  MIDDLETON 


Copyright  in  Great  Britain  and  Ireland,  and  in  all  countries 
subscribing  to  the  Bern  Convention. 

Published    March,    1920 


SPECIAL  NOTICE 

These  plays  in  their  printed  form  are  designed  for  the  reading 
public  only.  All  dramatic  rights  in  them  are  fully  protected  by 
copyright,  both  in  the  United  States  and  in  Great  Britain,  and  no 
public  or  private  performance — professional  or  amateur — may 
be  given  without  the  written  permission  of  the  author  and  the 
payment  of  royalty.  As  the  courts  have  also  ruled  that  the 
public  reading  of  a  play,  for  pay  or  where  tickets  are  sold, 
constitutes  a  "  performance,"  no  such  reading  may  be  given 
except  under  conditions  as  above  stated.  Any  one  disregarding 
the  author's  rights  renders  himself  liable  to  proseoution.  Com 
munications  should  be  sent  to  the  author,  care  of  Henry  Holt 
and  Company,  19  West  44th  St.,  New  York  City. 


gftc  (Qumn  &  Sobtn    Company 

BOOK      MANUFACTURERS 
RAHWAY  NEW     J  ERSEY 


GARDNER  and  MARICE 

SOUVENIR  OF  HAPPY  DAYS  IN  THE  FOREST 
WHERE  MUCH  OF  THIS  WAS  WRITTEN 


419765 


In  the  prefaces  to  my  five  previous  volumes  I  have 
sufficiently  explained  my  reason  for  play  publication — 
not  as  a  substitute  for  production  but  as  an  alternative 
sometimes  compelled  by  the  exigencies  of  a  highly  com 
mercialized  theater.  Further,  I  have  stated  in  other 
places  why  I  have  so  frequently  turned  to  the  one- 
act  form. 

The  present  volume  is  dedicated  to  no  thesis,  though 
perhaps  the  title  may  offer  some  hint  of  the  underlying 
motive  which  has  prompted  this  series. 

G.  M. 

December  23,  1919. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PREFACE        .       .       .       .       .       .      '.  .        v 

MASKS    ......»'.  ^        3 

JIM'S  BEAST  .       .       .       ....  .       67 

TIDES .  .113 

AMONG  THE  LIONS       .       .       .       *       .  ."149 

THE  REASON        .       .       .       .       .       .  .     181 

THE  HOUSE  211 


MASKS 


THE  PEOPLE 

GRANT  WILLIAMS,  a  dramatist. 
JERRY,  his  wife. 

i   Characters  in 
his  unproduced 
drama  "  The 
Lonely  Way." 

SCENE 

In  the  WILLIAMS'  flat,  New  York  City,  cfter  the 
second  performance  of  GRANT  WILLIAMS'  first  great 
success,  THE  SAND  BAR,  produced  at  the  National 
Theater. 


MASKS  * 

r  f  iHE  doorway  from  the  public  stairs  opens  im- 
f  mediately  upon  the  living-room  without  the 

•*•  intervening  privacy  of  a  small  hallway.  The 
room  was,  no  doubt,  more  formally  pretentious  in  the 
early  days  of  the  WILLIAMS'  marriage;  but  the 
relics  of  that  time — some  rigid  mahogany  chairs 
and  stray  pieces  of  staid  furniture — have  been  ruth 
lessly  pushed  against  the  ivalls,  so  that  one  perceives  a 
"  parlor  "  transformed  into  a  miscellaneous  room  upon 
which  the  flat's  overflow  has  gradually  crept.  And 
with  this  has  come  GRANT  WILLIAMS'  plain  wooden 
work-table,  bearing  now  a  writer's  accessories,  a  desk 
lamp,  and  a  mass  of  manuscripts;  one  of  which  is  his 
unproduced  drama,  THE  LONELY  WAY,  bound  in 
the  conventional  blue  linen  cover.  His  well-worn 
typewriter  is  perched  on  the  end  of  the  table,  in  easy 
reach  of  his  work-chair  with  its  sofa  cushions  crushed 
and  shaped  to  his  form.  Another  chair  is  near  by,  so 
that  it  also  may  catch  the  flood  of  light  which  comes 
from  the  conventional  electric  bunch-light  above.  There 
is  a  small  black  kerosene  heater  to  be  used  in  those 
emergencies  of  temperature  which  landlords  create. 
Not  far  from  it,  a  child's  collapsible  go-cart  is  propped. 
On  the  walls,  above  some  over-flowing  bookshelves,  are 

*  Copyright  by  George  Middleton.    See  back  of  title  page. 


'MASKS 


several  tastefully  selected  etchings.  A  window  in  back, 
which  hides  an  airshaft,  is  partly  concealed  by  heavy 
curtains  that  hang  tired  and  limp.  There  is  another 
doorway,  directly  opposite  the  entrance,  which  leads 
to  the  other  rooms  of  a  characteristically  compressed 
city  flat. 

Yet  the  room  is  not  forbidding:  it  merely  suggests 
forced  economies  that  have  not  quite  fringed  poverty: 
continual  adaptation,  as  it  were,  to  the  financial  con 
tingencies  of  a  marriage  that  has  just  managed  to  make 
both  ends  meet. 

When  the  curtain  rises  JERRY  WILLIAMS  is  seated 
in  the  cozy  chair  reading  a  number  of  newspaper  clip 
pings. 

JERRY  is  an  attractive  woman  in  her  thirties.  Ex 
ternally,  there  is  nothing  particularly  striking  about 
her:  if  there  be  such  a  thing  as  an  average  wife  JERRY 
personifies  it.  She  has  loved  her  husband  and  kept 
house  for  him  without  a  spoken  protest;  for  she  has 
had  no  advanced  ideas  or  theories.  Yet  she  has  had 
her  fears  and  little  concealments  and  dreams  —  like  any 
married  woman.  She  has  been  sustained  through  the 
ten  years  of  hard  sledding  by  the  belief  in  her  hus 
band's  ultimate  financial  success.  And  as  she  reads  the 
criticisms  of  his  play,  THE  SAND  BAR,  produced  the 
night  before,  she  realizes  it  has  come  at  last.  She  is 
now  completely  happy  and  calm  in  the  thought  of  her 
rewards. 

She  looks  at  the  cheap  watch  lying  on  the  desk  and 
indicates  it  is  late.  She  closes  the  window,  walks  over 
to  the  doorway  and  looks  in,  apparently  to  see  if  the 


MASKS  5 

child  is  still  asleep.  Then  she  closes  the  door  and 
stands  there,  with  just  a  suspicion  of  impatience. 

Several  minutes  pass.  Then  she  gives  a  little  cry  of 
joy  as  she  hears  the  key  turn  in  the  lock  and  she  sees 
the  hall  door  open  slowly — admitting  her  husband. 

GRANT  WILLIAMS  is  a  more  striking  personality  than 
his  wife;  about  forty,  with  a  tinge  of  iron  gray  on  his 
temples,  he  has  a  strong  virile  face  not  without  traces  of 
idealism.  His  whole  appearance  is  normal  and  devoid 
of  any  conscious  affectation  of  dress.  But  a  very  close 
inspection  might  reveal  that  his  suit,  though  carefully 
pressed,  is  well  worn — as  is  the  overcoat  which  covers 
it.  GRANT  happens  to  be  a  man  of  cultivation  and 
breeding,  with  a  spark  of  genius,  who  has  strayed  into 
strange  pastures.  At  present  there  lurks  an  unexpected 
depression  back  of  his  mood;  perhaps  it  is  only  the 
normal  reaction  which  comes  to  every  artist  when  suc 
cess  is  won  and  the  critical  sense  within  mocks  the 
achievement  so  beneath  the  dream.  Perhaps  with 
GRANT  WILLIAMS  it  is  something  else. 

JERRY 
Oh,  Grant,  I  thought  you'd  never  come  home. 

GRANT 
Best,  the  house  manager,  detained  me. 

JERRY 

(Detecting  his  mood) 
There's  nothing  the  matter  with  the  play? 


6  MASKS 

GRANT 

Nothing;  except  it's  an  enormous  success.  (She 
smiles  again,  and  he  wants  to  keep  her  smiling.)  We 
were  sold  out  to-night.  The  second  night!  Think  of 
that!  I  had  to  stand  myself. 

JERRY 

Well,  I  don't  see  why  you  should  be  blue  about  it. 
There  were  always  plenty  of  empty  seats  at  your  other 
plays.  I  knew  THE  SAND  BAR  couldn't  fail. 

GRANT 

(Throwing  coat  carelessly  over  chair) 
You  felt  the  same  about  the  others. 

JERRY 

(Trying  to  cheer  him) 
They  didn't  fail — artistically. 

GRANT 

You  mean  nobody  came  to  see  them — except  on 
passes.  But  THE  SAND  BAR!  That's  different! 
(With  a  tinge  of  sarcasm  throughout.)  You  ought 
to  have  seen  the  way  the  mob  at  the  National  ate  it  up. 

JERRY 

I  wanted  to  go  but  I  couldn't  ask  Mrs.  Hale  to 
take  care  of  the  baby  again.  Besides,  I  was  anxious  to 
read  all  the  notices  over  quietly  by  myself  and  .  ;  . 


MASKS  7 

GRANT 

(Picking  them  up  and  glancing  through  them) 
Great,  aren't  they  ?    Not  a  "  roast  "  among  them. 

JERRY 

Not  one.    I  couldn't  find  Arthur  Black's  review :  he 
was  always  so  kind  to  your  other  plays,  too. 

GRANT 

(Evasively) 

I  forgot  to  bring  in  the  Gazette.    Best  says  he  never 
saw  such  "  money  "  notices.     (Glances  at  one.)     Doran 
outdid  himself.      (Reading  the  critic's  notice  with  a 
touch  of  theatrical  exaggeration.)     "  The  perception  of 
human  nature  evinced  by  Grant  Williams  in  his  pro 
foundly  moving  drama  THE  SAND  BAR  places  him  in 
the  front  rank  of  American  dramatists!  " 

JERRY 
Just  where  you  belong. 

GRANT 

(Skipping) 

II  His  hero,  Tom  Robinson,  the  artist,  who  deliber 
ately  deserts  his  highest  ideals  because  his  wife's  happi 
ness   is   of   more   value    than    his    own    egoistic   self- 
expression,  is  a  new  angle  on  the  much  abused  artistic 
temperament."     (With  a  wise  smile.)     That  "twist" 
seems  to  have  got  them.     (Reading)  "  Marie,  his  wife, 
who  is  willing  to  risk  her  honor  to  test  his  love  and 
thus  awaken  him  to  a  sense  of  his  human  responsibility, 


8  MASKS 

is   a   character   which   will   appeal   to   every   married 
woman." 

JERRY 

(She  nods  in  approval,  without  his  seeing  her) 
But  read  the  last  paragraph,  dear. 

GRANT 

"  In  fact,  all  the  characters  are  true  to  themselves, 
never  once  being  bent  by  the  playwright  for  dramatic 
effect  out  of  the  inevitable  and  resistless  momentum  of 
their  individual  psychologies."  And  Doran  used  to 
report  prizefights! 

JERRY 

I  hope  he  doesn't  go  back  to  it.  He  writes  beauti 
fully. 

GRANT 

By  the  way,  I  haven't  told  you  the  crowning  achieve 
ment  of  my  ten  years  of  writing.  Trebaro — the  great 
Trebaro  who  would  never  even  read  my  plays  before 
— asked  me  in  the  lobby  to-night  to  write  him  a  curtain 
raiser ! 

JERRY 
(Happily) 
That's  splendid! 

GRANT 

I've  promised  to  get  it  done  in  ten  days.  His  new 
play  is  going  to  run  short.  He's  got  to  have  something 
to  lengthen  the  evening. 


Have  you  an  idea? 


MASKS 
JERRY 


GRANT 

No;  not  yet.  But  he  doesn't  like  anything  with 
ideas  in  it. 

JERRY 

(As  she  sees  him  go  to  his  typewriter  to  remove  cover) 
But,  dear,  you're  not  going  to  begin  it  to-night! 
(Significantly  stopping  him.)  To-night  belongs  to  me 
— not  to  your  work.  (Nestling  close  beside  him.) 
Dearest.  .  .  . 

GRANT 

All  right,  Jerry.  I've  only  got  a  few  paragraphs  of 
personal  stuff  to  bang  off.  Then  I'll  be  with  you.  The 
Times  wants  it  for  a  Sunday  story — with  my  photo. 
(As  her  face  brightens  again.)  You  see,  Mrs.  Grant 
Williams,  your  husband  is  now  in  the  limelight. 

JERRY 
I'm  so  glad  success  has  come  to  you  at  last. 

GRANT 

Better  at  last  than  at  first.  I'm  told  it's  bad  for 
your  character  to  be  too  successful  when  you're  young. 
So  providence  nearly  starved  us  a  bit,  eh? 

JERRY 

You  thought  it  was  going  to  be  so  easy  when  we 
were  first  married.  It's  been  hard  for  you,  dear.  I 


io  MASKS 

know.  Writing  and  writing  and  seeing  other  fellows 
make  money.  But  now  you've  won  out.  You  ought 
to  be  very  happy,  as  I  am. 

GRANT 

You  are  happy,  aren't  you?  (He  takes  her  hands 
affectionately,  then  looks  at  them,  turning  them  over.) 
The  only  hard  thing,  Jerry,  was  to  see  these  hands  of 
yours  grow  red  and  rough  with  the  work  here. 

JERRY 
Maybe  that's  the  only  way  they  could  help  you. 

GRANT 

(Enigmatically ) 

It's  because  of  them  and  only  because  of  them  that 
I've  done  it. 

JERRY 
Done  what? 

GRANT 

Oh,  nothing.  (He  puts  paper  in  the  machine.) 
How  about  a  glass  of  milk? 

JERRY 

I'll  get  it  while  the  great  man  reveals  himself  to  an 
anxious  public. 

GRANT 

And  some  crackers.  (Sitting  at  machine.)  They 
want  something  on:  "How  I  Make  My  Characters 


MASKS  ii 

Live."      (She  laughs  suddenly:  he  starts.)     Oh;  it's 


you? 


JERRY 

Yes.     I  was  thinking  how  funny  it  was  to  celebrate 
a  success  in  milk. 

GRANT 

Yes.    But  the  greatest  joke  of  all  is  that  THE  SAND 
BAR  is  a  success — a  real  financial  success. 

JERRY 
It's  a  very  good  joke. 

(She  goes  out  happily.      Then  a  cynical  look 
creeps  into  his  face.    He  reads  as  he  types.) 

GRANT 
"  How  I  Made  My  Characters  in  THE  SAND  BAR 

Live." 

(He  pauses  a  second,  smiling  cynically.  Then, 
as  he  apparently  hears  something,  he  rises  and 
goes  over  to  the  hall  door  which  he  opens 
quickly.  He  looks  out  and  apparently  sees  a 
neighbor  entering  the  apartment  opposite.  A 
bibulous  "  good  night "  is  heard.  He  closes  the 
door,  turns  the  key,  tests  the  door  and  sees  it  is 
locked.  As  he  stands  there  puzzled,  JERRY 
enters,  with  a  bottle  of  milk,  some  crackers,  and 
an  apple  on  a  small  tray.) 
You'll  have  to  get  over  this  habit  of  waiting  on 

me  now. 


12  MASKS 

JERRY 
Don't  ask  the  impossible. 

GRANT 
But  we  shall  have  servants  now ;  plenty  of  them. 

JERRY 

Plenty  of  them?  Why  how  much  money  are  you 
going  to  make  out  of  THE  SAND  BAR? 

• .    GRANT 
Nearly  a  thousand  dollars  a  week. 

JERRY 

(Almost  inaudibly  as  she  nearly  drops  the  tray) 
My  God! 

GRANT 

(As  he  puts  tray  on  table) 

It  will  run  forty  weeks  at  the  National.  Then  three 
road  companies  next  year:  "  stock  "  and  the  "  movies  " 
after  that.  I'm  going  to  make  as  much  money  in  two 
weeks  now  as  I  ever  made  before  in  one  year — turning 
out  hack  stuff  and  book  reviews.  And  all  I've  got  to 
do  is  to  sit  back  and  let  it  work  for  me! 

JERRY 
It  doesn't  seem  honest. 

GRANT 

Maybe  it  isn't,  Jerry.  (As  he  eats.)  But  when 
the  public  is  pleased  it  pays  to  be  pleased. 


MASKS  13 

JERRY 

(Venturing) 
The  first  thing  I  want  is  some  new  clothes. 

GRANT 

(Grandiloquently) 
My  first  week's  royalty  is  yours. 

JERRY 
Really? 

GRANT 

Throw  away  everything  that's  darned  and  patched. 
I'm  sick  of  seeing  them. 

JERRY 

I  was  always  so  ashamed,  too.  Just  think  what 
people  would  have  said  if  I'd  been  run  over  or  killed 
in  an  accident. 

GRANT 

Now  you'll  do  the  running  over — in  our  new  car. 

JERRY 

(Hardly  believing  her  ears) 
A  car! 

GRANT 
Every  successful  playwright  has  a  car. 

JERRY 

(Joyfully) 

Then  we'll  have  to  move  from  here  to  live  up  to 
the  car? 


H  MASKS 

GRANT 

We've  got  to  move.  It's  more  important  to  look 
like  a  success  than  to  be  one.  (Glancing  about  flat.} 
And  the  Lord  knows  this  doesn't  look  like  success. 

JERRY 

I'm  so  glad.  I've  grown  to  hate  these  five  stuffy 
rooms  without  sunlight. 

GRANT 

Nothing  to  light  them  up  these  ten  years  but  the 
glow  of  my  genius,  eh?  Now  I'll  have  a  big  house  to 
shine  in. 

A 

JERRY 

I've  always  dreamed  of  you  having  a  room  off  by 
yourself. 

GRANT 

Where  you  could  really  dream  without  the  sound 
of  my  typewriter  waking  you  and  the  baby  ? 

JERRY 

But  it  will  be  splendid  for  you,  too.  I  don't  see  how 
you  ever  wrote  here  with  me  always  fussing  in  and  out. 

GRANT 

Washing  the  eternal  dish  and  cooking  the  eternal 
chop. 

JERRY 

I  don't  ever  want  to  look  another  gas  stove  in  the 
face. 


MASKS  15 

GRANT 
You've  cooked  your  last  chop. 

JERRY 
Oh,  Grant;  my  dreams  have  come  true. 

GRANT 

(Enigmatically  again) 

Yes.  Success  or  failure :  it's  all  a  matter  of  how  you 
dream.  (She  looks  up  puzzled:  he  is  silent  a  moment 
and  then  goes  to  machine  again.)  But  I'll  never  get 
this  done. 

JERRY 

I'll  put  on  my  old  wrapper,  for  the  last  time,  and 
wait  up  for  you.  I'm  going  to  get  a  real  negligee  to 
morrow.  Your  favorite  color. 

GRANT 

I  won't  be  long.  This  is  an  awful  bore  and  I'm 
tired. 

(He  begins  to  pound  out  something  on  his 
machine.  JERRY  goes  over  to  hang  up  his  coat, 
and  as  she  does  so,  a  newspaper  clipping  falls 
out  of  his  pocket,  on  the  floor.  She  picks  it  up 
unnoticed  by  GRANT.  She  glances  at  it;  starts 
angrily  to  speak  to  GRANT  about  it;  but  seeing 
he  is  absorbed,  hesitates  and  then  conceals  it. 
She  hangs  up  the  coat,  comes  around  back  of 
him  as  though  to  speak — but  changes  her  mind. 
She  kisses  him.  As  she  passes  the  table,  she 
knocks  off  the  manuscript  of  a  play.  She  picks 
it  up.) 


1 6  MASKS 

GRANT 
What's  that? 

JERRY 

The  manuscript  of  THE  LONELY  WAY.  (He  looks 
over  at  it^with  a  cynical  smile.)  You've  learned  a  lot 
about  playwrighting  since  you  wrote  that,  haven't  you, 
dear? 

GRANT 
Yes— a  lot. 

JERRY 

(Tentatively) 
You  used  to  say  it  was  the  best  thing  you  ever  did. 

GRANT 
How  did  you  happen  to  come  across  it? 

JERRY 
I  found  it  behind  the  chest  when  I  was  cleaning. 

GRANT 

Oh,  yes;  I  remember.  I  threw  it  there  the  day  of 
my  great  decision:  The  day  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
rewrite  it  and  call  it  THE  SAND  BAR. 

JERRY 

(As  she  glances  over  the  pages) 
Grant.     I'm  not  going  to  lose  you  now  that  you're 
a  success? 


MASKS  17 

GRANT 

What  ever  put  such  a  foolish  idea  in  your  head  ? 

JERRY 

You  remember  the  Tom  Robinson  you  drew  in  this 
play?  All  you  made  him  think  of  was  his  art;  he 
even  threw  away  his  wife  to  make  a  success  of  it. 

GRANT 

That  was  because  his  wife  didn't  understand.  Be 
sides,  dear,  you  know  how  much  I  altered  my  original 
conception  of  their  characters  and  completely  changed 
the  plot.  Look  how  different  it  all  is  in  THE  SAND 
BAR. 

JERRY 

And  you  think  your  changes  made  the  play  truer  to 
life?  In  real  life  a  Tom  Robinson  wouldn't  have  got 
rid  of  her? 

GRANT 

I  don't  think  anything's  ever  going  to  come  between 
us,  if  that's  what  you  mean. 

JERRY 

Of  course  not.  (Putting  the  manuscript  on  table, 
relieved,  as  she  sees  him  resume  his  typing.}  But  I 
felt  so  sure  of  you  when  we  were  poor.  Perhaps  it  was 
because  you  couldn't  afford  to  be  wild. 

(She  turns  off  the  switch  and  goes  out.     The 
room  is  lighted  only  by  the  desk  lamp,  casting 


i8  MASKS 

its  shadows  into  the  corners  of  the  room.  He 
takes  a  cigarette  from  the  box  on  the  table,  and 
as  he  smokes  he  reads  half  to  himself  what  he 
has  written.) 

GRANT 

"  An  author's  characters  grow  into  life  out  of  his 
observation  and  experience.  Once  they  are  conceived 
by  these  two  parents  their  first  heart  beats  are  the 
taps  of  the  author's  typewriter."  Good.  "  Gradually 
they  grow  into  living  men  and  women.  They  live  with 
him,  yet  with  a  life  of  their  own.  In  writing  THE 
SAND  BAR  I  ...  I  ... 

(This  makes  him  hesitate  to  continue.  He 
glances  toward  the  manuscript  of  THE  LONELY 
WAY.  He  rises  slowly  and  picks  it  up  cyni 
cally.  Then,  as  though  fascinated,  he  gradually 
settles  in  the  cozy  chair  by  his  table.  He  begins 
to  become  absorbed  as  he  reads  his  earlier  play. 
He  puts  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  he  lowers  the 
manuscript,  gives  a  sigh  as  though  lost  in  the 
thoughts  it  calls  up.  The  door,  which  he  has 
locked,  opens  noiselessly,  and  closes  as  GRANT 
looks  up  in  surprise  and  sees  a  man  enter. 

GRANT  immediately  discovers  there  is  some 
thing  extraordinary  about  his  unexpected  visitor. 
As  he  directs  the  light  upon  him,  GRANT  per 
ceives  the  man's  power  which  lies  both  in  his 
frame  and  impressive  personality.  His  eyes  have 
a  relentless  coldness  when  they  narrow.  His 
mouth  is  firm  but  cruel,  ^uith  a  sarcastic  droop 


MASKS  19 

pulling  down  the  corners.  In  spite  of  an  occa 
sional  uncouth  manner  of  spasmodically  blurt 
ing  out  his  words,  GRANT  soon  realizes  how 
keen  is  the  intruder's  penetration  when  it  is 
sharpened  to  the  one  point  which  vitally  con 
cerns  him — his  art.  For  this  man  of  fifty-five 
winters,  is  a  great  artist.  GRANT  is  too  amazed 
and  puzzled  to  recognize  it  is  one  of  his  own 
creations:  TOM  ROBINSON. 

The  latter  comes  over  to  the  dramatist  and 
places  a  hand  on  his  shoulder.) 

TOM 
You  and  I  have  some  scores  to  settle. 

GRANT 

(Moving  away) 
Who  are  you? 

TOM 
So  you  don't  recognize  me? 

GRANT 
Your  manners  are  familiar. 

TOM 
So  Whistler  once  said.     Look  at  me  closely. 

GRANT 
Is  this  a  dare? 


20  MASKS 

TOM 

(Shaking  his  head  slowly) 

An  author's  brain  is  indeed  a  store-house  of  mixed 
impressions:  a  strange  asylum  for  me  to  have  escaped 
from. 

GRANT 

(Starting  toward  door) 

Possibly  the  police  may  be  able  to  lead  you  safely 
home. 

TOM 
I  am  at  home  with  you. 

GRANT 
Don't  get  excited.    Keep  perfectly  cool. 

TOM 

I  am  cool  because  my  intention  is.  (  GRANT  gives  him 
a  look  as  TOM  goes  over  to  the  machine  and  glances  at 
the  heading  of  the  article.)  "  How  I  Make  My 
Characters  Live!"  You  certainly  do — some  of  us. 

(GRANT  suddenly  crosses  to  the  door,  tries  it 
and  realizes  it  is  still  locked.  He  turns,  be 
wildered,  to  TOM.) 

GRANT 
How  did  you  get  in  here? 

TOM 

Why  shouldn't  I?  As  your  fellow-craftsman  once 
remarked :  "  I  am  a  trifle  light  as  air." 


MASKS  21 

GRANT 
I  can't  say  you  look  it. 

TOM 

(Eyeing  him  as  he  lights  one  of  GRANT'S  cigarettes) 
Since  you  don't  recognize  me  perhaps  you  didn't  do 
what  you  did  to  me — deliberately. 

GRANT 

But  I've  never  done  a  thing  to  you. 

TOM 

Are* we  so  soon  forgot?  (Puffing)  Yet  how  remi 
niscent  the  odor  of  this  cigarette.  I  notice  you  still 
smoke  the  same  cheap  brand. 

GRANT 

I  must  say  I  admire'  your  nerve. 

TOM 
You  ought  to  admire  it.    You  gave,  it  to  me. 

GRANT 
I  never  gave  you  anything. 

TOM 
(Bluntly) 
Liar !    You  gave  me  life ! 

GRANT 
Gave  you  life? 


22  MASKS 

TOM 
Yes;  I  am  your  child. 

GRANT 

My  child?     (He  laughs.) 

TOM 

Many  a  man  before  you  has  tried  to  deny  paternity 
with  a  laugh. 

GRANT 

But  you're  old  enough  to  be  my  father.  Are  you 
accusing  me  of  improving  on  Nature? 

TOM 

All  artists  do.  (Picking  up  manuscript  of  THE 
LONELY  WAY.)  Here's  how  you  described  me. 
(Reading)  "  .  .  .  his  eyes  have  a  relentless  cold 
ness  when  they  narrow  .  .  .  mouth  firm  but  cruel. 
.  .  .  Not  attractive  but  impressive."  There  I  am. 
Read  it  for  yourself. 

GRANT 
Then  you  are — ? 

TOM 

( Sarcastically ) 
Your  child.    Your  once  dearly  beloved  brain  baby. 

GRANT 

(Awed) 
Tom  Robinson! 


MASKS  23 

TOM 

As  you  originally  conceived  him  here  in  THE 
LONELY  WAY. 

GRANT 
Well,  I'm  damned. 

TOM 

I  suspect  you  are.  That's  what  I'm  here  to  see. 
(Ominously)  And  then  if  ;:  ;  ;.-•  (Suddenly  casual) 
But  sit  down  and  we'll  talk  it  over  calmly  first. 
(  GRANT  sits  down  astonished.  TOM  sits  also. )  Thanks. 

GRANT 
Go  on. 

TOM 

Look  at  me.  Here  I  am,  as  you  drew  me.  Tom 
Robinson.  Your  greatest  creation! 

GRANT 
I  recognize  the  egotism. 

TOM 

(Blurting) 

I  am  what  my  egotism  made  me.  Your  egotism  also 
made  you  dare  to>conceive  me,  here  at  this  very  desk, 
out  of  your  brain,  in  the  puffs  of  your  cheap  cigarettes. 
The  taps  on  your  typewriter  were  my  first  heart  beats. 
Your  birth  pains  were  my  own  cries  of  life. 

GRANT 

You  certainly  gave  me  a  lot  of  trouble. 


24  MASKS 

TOM 

But  you  never  suffered  in  having  me  as  I  did  last 
night  when  I  went  with  you  to  THE  SAND  BAR  and 
saw  what  you'd  done  to  Tom  Robinson! 

GRANT 

(More  and  more  amused  at  what  seems   to   be   the 
childish  petulance  of  an  admittedly  great  man) 
You  must  have  had  quite  a  shock. 

TOM 

Shock?  I  was  disgusted!  Why,  the  actor  who's 
interpreting  me  isn't  even  bad  looking. 

GRANT 
No.    He  couldn't  be.    He's  a  star. 

TOM 

But  /  was  your  original  conception.  Why  did  you 
alter  me  into  a  good-looking  fashion  plate  with  charm  ? 
There  never  was  anything  charming  about  me;  never. 

GRANT 

(Glancing  towards  his  wife's  door) 
Please  not  so  loud.    I  made  you  unpleasant,  I  know ; 
but  don't  pile  it  on,  Tom. 

TOM 

(With  dignity) 
Robinson  to  you. 


MASKS  25 

GRANT 

(Smiling) 
I  beg  your  pardon. 

TOM 

Why  you  authors  feel  you  can  take  liberties  with 
your  characters  is  beyond  me.  I,  for  one,  shall  be 
treated  with  respect.  (His  eyes  narrow.)  Unless 
you  have  lost  your  capacity  to  respect  a  work  of  art 
like  me. 

GRANT 

Come,  come.  I'm  afraid  it's  you  who  have  lost  your 
sense  of  humor. 

TOM 

(Sarcastically) 

Perhaps  you  didn't  give  me  as  much  humor  as  you 
thought. 

GRANT 

But  can't  we  talk  over  the  object  of  your  visit  in  a 
friendly  spirit?  (With  a  smile.)  Say,  as  father  to 
son? 

TOM 

You'll  take  me  seriously  before  I'm  through.  I'll 
remind  you  that  7  was  a  force  in  THE  LONELY  WAY 
though  in  THE  SAND  BAR  Tom  Robinson  is  merely 
a  figure.  One  suit  a  year  was  good  enough  for  me. 
You  make  him  change  his  every  act. 


26  MASKS 

GRANT 

(More  at  ease) 

I'm  afraid  you  don't  understand  the  demands  of  the 
modern  theater. 

TOM 

What  have  I — a  great  character — to  do  with  the 
modern  theater? 

GRANT 
Nothing.     That's  why  I  revised  you. 

TOM 
(Bitterly) 
Then  why  did  you  give  me  life  at  all? 

GRANT 

Because  then  I  was  fool  enough  to  think  the  modern 
theater  was  a  place  for  great  creations.  I  recognize  the 
conditions  better  now. 

TOM 

But  in  THE  LONELY  WAY  you  didn't  consider  me 
a  fool  when  I  continued  to  paint  great  pictures — in 
spite  of  conditions. 

GRANT 
You  were  a  great  artist  in  that  play. 

TOM 

And  when  you  drew  me  you  were  a  great  dramatist. 
(Sadly)  Now  I  see  you  are  only  a  playwright. 


MASKS  27 

GRANT 

And  at  the  National  Tom  Robinson  has  become  only 
a  painter  of  pot-boilers.  (Mockingly)  You've  cer 
tainly  come  down  in  the  world. 

TOM 

I  don't  need  your  pity;  but  I  want  you  to  realize 
that  what  you  did  to  me  you  also  did  to  yourself. 
When  you  made  me  fall,  I  brought  you  down  with 
me.  (He  shakes  the  manuscript  before  him.)  Look! 
I  had  life  there  in  a  powerful  play. 

GRANT 

I  won't  dispute  that.  It  was  fine:  beautifully  articu 
lated  in  its  subtlety. 

TOM 

That  just  describes  it.  It  was  nearly  as  fine  as  my 
Sumatra  Sunlight  or  even  my  Russian  Nocturne. 

GRANT 
Which  you  never  sold. 

TOM 
But  what  is  painted  lives  for  the  future. 

GRANT 

Don't  be  sensitive:  my  LONELY  WAY  is  still  here. 
Nobody  would  produce  it. 

TOM 

Yet  you  cared  for  nobody  when  you  made  me  live 
in  it — perfect  as  the  frame  that  held  me.  The  strength 


28  MASKS 

you  gave  me  in  my  own  relentlessness  was  also  yours. 
You  glowed  when  you  wrote  it ;  as  you  made  me  glow 
when  I  painted.  You  felt  the  joy  which  only  a  creator 
knows  when  beauty  and  perfection  slowly  struggle 
out  of  his  inner  vision. 

GRANT 
But,  my  dear  fellow    .    .    . 

TOM 

Wait.  Contrast  this  play  with  THE  SAND  BAR! 
With  your  skill  as  a  builder  you  turned  what  was  a 
lonely  palace  on  a  peak — aflame  with  my  art — into  a 
scrambly  suburban  residence  where  miserable  ordinary 
people  function.  You  produced  a  miserable  makeshift 
of  a  play  and  made  Tom  Robinson  a  miserable  make 
shift  of  a  man.  (Accusing  him.)  But  when  you 
played  tricks  on  me  you  played  tricks  on  yourself. 
That's  what  you  did  when  you  took  from  Tom  Robin 
son  his  genius  and  made  him  paint  pot-boilers  at  the 
National.  Pot-boilers!  Pot-boilers!  Me!!  Good 
God,  man,  did  you  know  what  you  were  doing  when 
you  rewrote  this  play? 

GRANT 

(Slowly) 

I  knew  exactly  what  I  was  doing.  I  was  turning  it 
into  a  popular  success. 

TOM 

(Outraged) 
You  had  not  even  the  excuse  of  self-deception  ? 


MASKS  29 

GRANT 


No. 


TOM 

(Eyeing  him  strangely) 
Then  you  are  worse  off  than  we  thought! 

GRANT 

We? 

TOM 

I  wonder  how  far  you  have  fallen!  I  shall  be 
patient  till  we  see  the  depths  of  your  artistic  degrada 
tion. 

GRANT 
You  said  "we"? 

A  WOMAN'S  VOICE 

(Outside) 
Yes.     We. 

(GRANT  gives  a  start  towards  the  door,  think 
ing  the  voice  has  come  from  his  wife's  room.) 

TOM 
Oh,  that  isn't  your  wife. 

GRANT 

Then  if  you've  some  friend  concealed  about  your 
person,  hadn't  you  better  produce  her? 


30  MASKS 

TOM 
That  isn't  my  friend;  that's  my  wife. 

GRANT 

Your  humor  isn't  inspiring.  I've  heard  that  bril 
liant  retort  before. 

TOM 

Certainly.  You  wrote  it  yourself;  but  you  stole  it 
from  Moliere.  If  I  had  your  memory  I'd  be  witty, 
too. 

GRANT 

(Looking  about) 
I  don't  seem  to  see  Mrs.  Robinson  very  clearly. 

TOM 

She  says  you  never  did.  Come  to  think  of  it,  she's  no 
longer  Mrs.  Robinson. 

GRANT 

Oh,  I  forgot.  In  THE  LONELY  WAY  you  divorced 
her. 

TOM 

Marie  and  I  haven't  been  on  speaking  terms  since; 
but  after  she  saw  THE  SAND  BAR  she  simply  insisted 
on  coming  here. 

GRANT 

Well,  I'll  be  happy  to  hear  her  grievance,  too. 


MASKS  31 

TOM 

(Ominously) 

You  won't  think  us  so  amusing  when  we  are  through 
with  you. 

GRANT 

As  a  dramatist,  I  admire  your  talent  for  suspense. 
(Calling)   Come  in,  Mrs.  Robinson. 

TOM 

(Correcting  him) 

Case.     Mrs.  Pendleton  Case.    You've  also  forgotten 
that  in  THE  LONELY  WAY  you  made  her  marry  him. 

GRANT 

To  be  sure.     But  in  THE  SAND  BAR  I  made  her 
stay  with  you. 

TOM 
Yes.    That's  one  of  her  grievances. 

GRANT 
Come  in,  Mrs.  Case. 

(GRANT  watches  MARIE  come  slowly  from  be 
hind  the  curtains,  into  the  light.  Then  he  sees 
a  handsome  woman  of  thirty-five,  bien  soignee 
to  the  last  degree.  Yet  somehow  to  GRANT 
her  manner  is  an  assumption  she  has  acquired 
and  not  inherited.  Beneath  her  vivid  personal 
ity,  her  unrestrained  moods  glitter  with  force  if 
not  heat.  But  now  she  eyes  him  steadily  with 


32  MASKS 

the  greatest  contempt.  She  wears  a  magnifi 
cent  opera  cloak,  clutched  close  to  her.  She 
carries  a  small  hand  bag. 

Though  MARIE  and  TOM  are  aware  of  each 
others  presence,  they  never  address  each  other; 
they  speak  to  each  other  through  GRANT  as 
though  they  existed  only  in  him.) 

GRANT 
Do  sit  down. 

TOM 
Oh,  Marie  will  sit  down.     Don't  worry. 

(Before  she  sits  she  carelessly  throws  her  cloak 
over  the  same  chair  that  GRANT  had  previously 
thrown  his  coat.  She  stands  revealed  in  a 
beautiful  evening  gown.  It  seems  to  proclaim 
to  GRANT  her  daring  and  contempt  for  con 
ventions.) 

MARIE 

After  what  I've  just  heard  I  don't  know  whether 
it's  worth  while  to  waste  words  on  a  creature  like  you. 

GRANT 

(Very  politely  throughout) 
Your  husband  seems  to  have  succeeded  in  doing  it. 

TOM 

Her  husband?    Don't  try  to  saddle  her  off  on  me. 
Once  was  enough. 


MASKS  33 

MARIE 

It's  only  our  contempt  for  you,  Mr.  Williams,  that 
finds  us  two  together. 

GRANT 
To  be  sure.     I  keep  forgetting. 

(MARIE  takes  a  cigarette  out  of  the  hand  bag; 
GRANT  offers  her  a  light.) 
Permit  me. 

(She  glares  at  him  and  refuses  it.  As  she 
searches  her  hand  bag  for  a  match,  a  small 
pistol  accidentally  falls  to  the  floor.  GRANT 
quickly  picks  it  up  and  hands  it  to  her.  She 
replaces  it.  He  offers  her  another  light,  which 
she  sullenly  accepts.) 

MARIE 

I  wouldn't  accept  anything  from  you,  only,  in  my 
haste,  I  forgot  my  matches.  (She  crosses  one  knee 
over  the  other  and  puffs.)  Brr — it's  cold  here. 

TOM 
(Bluntly) 
She  wants  a  drink. 

GRANT 

Will  she  accept  it  from  me? 

TOM 
She'll  take  it  from  anybody. 


34  MASKS 

GRANT 
Oh,  yes,  I  remember.    I  beg  your  pardon. 

MARIE 

(Seeing  him  lift  up  the  milk  bottle) 
Milk! 

GRANT 

(Apologetically) 

When  I  gave  you  your  fondness  for  alcohol  in  THE 
LONELY  WAY,  we  didn't  have  prohibition. 

MARIE 

Was  that  the  reason  you  took  it  away  from  Marie 
when  you  changed  her  in  THE  SAND  BAR? 

GRANT 

Not  exactly.  You  see  no  leading  lady  can  ever  have 
a  real  thirst.  I'm  sorry  if  you're  cold. 

TOM 

Oh,  Mrs.  Case  will  warm  up  when  she  remembers 
what  you've  done  to  her.  She  had  a  wonderful  temper 
when  she  lived  with  me. 

MARIE 

I  had  to  have.  And  you  also  took  that  away  from 
me. 

GRANT 

I'm  very  sorry,  Mrs.  Case;  the  leading  lady  didn't 
like  your  temper  either. 


MASKS  35 

MARIE 

But  /  liked  it.  It  was  part  of  my  character,  as  you 
originally  conceived  me. 

GRANT 

Yes;  a  character  touch.  It  was  the  only  comedy 
relief  in  my  play. 

TOM 

It  may  have  been  comedy  to  you  but  it  was  no  relief 
to  me. 

MARIE 

(Emotionally) 

My  temper  was  my  defense  and  my  attack.  It 
aroused  fear  and  respect.  Through  it  I  got  what  I 
wanted  out  of  life.  It  was  mine!  Mine!  And  you 
took  it  away  from  me!  Oh! 

(She  rushes  angrily  towards  the  milk  bottle 
and  lifts  it  above  her  as  though  to  smash  it; 
but  GRANT  stops  her.) 

TOM 

(As  he  lights  another  cigarette) 
There  you  see.     Every  time  she  thinks  of  what  a 
temper  she  has  she  loses  it. 

GRANT  * 

(Still  holding  the  bottle  with  her) 
I  concede  your  temper.     I  always  had  a  hard  time 
to  control  it.     (Taking  it  from  her  courteously.)      It 
was  one  of  your  most  unpleasant  traits. 


36  MASKS 

MARIE 
(Sullenly) 
Then  why  did  you  change  me? 

GRANT 

It's  a  professional  secret,  Mrs.  Case.  The  leading 
lady  hasn't  the  capacity  to  reach  the  heights  your  won 
derful  temper  demanded.  Besides,  her  specialty  is  cute 
ingenue  stuff.  She's  a  great  popular  favorite,  you 
know,  and  is  consequently  afraid  to  lose  her  following 
by  playing  any  part  which  lacks  charm. 

TOM 
(Bitterly) 

Charm!  Charm!  There  it  is  again,  Williams. 
You  hadn't  a  bit  of  respect  for  Mrs.  Case's  true  char 
acter  so  you  made  her  charming. 

MARIE 

But  you  gave  me  a  charm  all  my  own  before  I  mar 
ried  Tom. 

TOM 

She  kept  it  to  herself ;  I  never  suspected  it  after  we 
were  married. 

MARIE 

But,  Mr.  Williams,  you  knew  no  one  could  live  with 
Tom  Robinson  and  not  lose  her  charm.  All  he  really 
wanted  of  me  was  to  cook  his  chops  and  wash  his 
dishes. 


MASKS  37 

TOM 

She  seems  to  forget  she  was  my  wife  and  that  I  was 
a  genius.  She  wanted  me  to  get  my  precious  fingers 
red  and  rough  in  a  dish  pan. 

MARIE 

(Flaring) 

No.  I  wanted  him  to  be  a  human  being,  not  an 
artist. 

GRANT 

(Who  has  been  trying  to  speak  throughout) 
Please.  Please.     Remember  you  two  are  no  longer 
married. 

TOM 
You  see:  she's  warming  up. 

MARIE 
(Bitterly) 
How  like  old  times. 

GRANT 

By  Jove.  I  remember  now.  (Opening  manuscript.) 
I  remember  everything  about  you. 

MARIE 

Don't  be  humorous.  There's  lots  about  your  own 
characters  you  authors  never  know. 

TOM 
That's  what  critics  are  for. 


38  MASKS 

MARIE 

So  don't  try  to  make  my  temper  seem  trivial,  Mr. 
Williams.  I  valued  it.  It  gave  me  a  chance  to  assert 
myself.  It  kept  me  alive  as  an  individual.  In  THE 
LONELY  WAY,  while  I  was  his  wife,  you  made  my 
whole  fight  to  keep  from  being  swamped  by  his  person 
ality. 

TOM 

As  a  married  man  yourself,  Williams,  you  know 
damn  well  that  women  have  got  to  capitulate  in  mar 
riage.  We  husbands  have  got  to  close  the  door  on 
them  when  they  don't  understand  us. 

MARIE 

(Contemptuously} 

And  in  THE  SAND  BAR,  Marie  didn't  have  the 
courage  to  take  the  things  of  life  that  lay  outside  the 
door!  She  didn't  dare,  like  me,  because  you'd  changed 
her  into  a  sweet  simpering  woman  who  loved  her 
husband. 

TOM 

But  the  Tom  Robinson  she  loved  there  isn't  the  Tom 
Robinson  you  see  here. 

MARIE 
No.    The  other  is  a  hero!     He's  a  halo  on  legs. 

GRANT 

Your  ignorance  of  theatrical  conditions  is  appalling. 
THE  SAND  BAR  had  to  have  a  happy  ending.  If  I 


MASKS  39 

hadn't  made  you  both  charming  the  public  wouldn't 
have  believed  in  your  ultimate  happiness  together. 

TOM 

(Bringing  his  hand  down  on  the  table) 
Now  we're  getting  at  it.     Why  the  devil  did  you 
bring  us  together? 

GRANT 

(Trying   to    explain    elementally) 
Because  I'd  turned  you  into  the  hero  and  you  into 
the  heroine.     They  must   always  come   together  for 
the  final  curtain. 

MARIE 
But  I  wasn't  a  heroine. 

TOM 

No.     She's  right  there. 

MARIE 

(Emotionally) 

I  was  a  bitter,  disillusionized  woman.  I  saw  how 
Tom  Robinson  succeeded  in  getting  out  of  life  what 
he  wanted  by  being  relentless.  I,  too,  became  relent 
less  and  married  Pendleton  Case  because  he  could  give 
me  w^hat  /  most  wanted. 

GRANT 

(Beginning  from   now   on   to   lose   his  patience) 
Yes;  but  that  was  too  unsympathetic  a  motive  to 


40  MASKS 

use  in  a  popular  play.     So  I  had  to  make  Pendleton 
Case  a  villain  who  took  advantage  of  your  trust  in  him. 


MARIE 

But  Penny  was  only  a  poor  gullible*fool  consumed 
by  my  egotism.  Why  were  you  so  unfair  to  him? 
Why  did  you  make  him  a  villain? 

TOM 

Yes.  I  want  to  know  why  you  gave  him  all  my 
vices? 

GRANT 

If  Case  hadn't  had  all  your  vices,  Marie  wouldn't 
have  had  all  the  sympathy. 

MARIE 
I  didn't  want  sympathy;  I  wanted  clothes! 

GRANT 

( Confused) 

But  the  leading  lady  has  to  have  sympathy  even 
without  clothes.  I  mean 

TOM 
(Quickly) 

Do  you  mean  that  the  reason  you  made  me  sacrifice 
my  art  in  THE  SAND  BAR  and  rescue  her  from  Case 
was  because  she  had  to  have  sympathy? 


MASKS  41 

GRANT 

Exactly.  And,  besides,  how  was  an  audience  going 
to  know  you  were  a  hero  unless  you  sacrificed  some 
thing? 

TOM 

But  I'm  not  a  hero:  I'm  an  artist.  You  know  the 
real  reason  I  got  rid  of  her  was  because  she  stood  in 
the  way  of  my  art;  because  I  wouldn't  let  a  single 
human  responsibility  weaken  the  vision  within  me. 

MARIE 
Wasn't  that  reason  enough  why  I  should  leave  him  ? 

GRANT 

But  that  was  too  abstract  an  idea  for  the  audience 
to  get. 

MARIE 
So  you  turned  an  abstraction  into  a  villain ! 

GRANT 

Can't  you  see  your  husband  couldn't  rescue  you 
from  an  abstraction? 

MARIE 

But  I  didn't  want  to  be  rescued.  I  wanted  to 
marry  Penny! 

TOM 
And  I  was  tickled  to  death  to  get  rid  of  her. 


42  .       MASKS 

MARIE 
Yes.    It  meant  release  for  us  both  to  be  ourselves. 

GRANT 

But,  Robinson,  you  had  to  rescue  her.  She  was  the 
leading  lady.  The  manager  pays  her  five  hundred 
dollars  a  week  to  marry  the  star. 

MARIE 
Well,  she  earns  it. 

GRANT 

She  earns  it  because  she  draws. 

TOM 

(Surprised) 
Does  she  paint,  too? 

GRANT 

She  draws  that  much  money  into  the  box  office. 

TOM 
Money,  money!     How  that  runs  through  your  talk. 

MARIE 

(Referring  to  Tom) 
I  wish  to  heaven  it  had  run  through  his. 

TOM 

(Lifting  his  voice  angrily) 

I  was  above  such  things.  I  am  an  artist.  Money! 
Money!  I  see  red  when  I  hear  that  word.  Money! 
Money!  The  curse  of  true  art. 


MASKS  43 

GRANT 

(Pointing  to  his  wife's  door) 
Please,  please;  not  so  loud.     You'll  wake  the  baby. 

MARIE 

(With  a  poignant  cry) 
Oh! 

GRANT 
What's  the  matter  with  you  ? 

MARIE 

I  forgot  all  about  that.     You  also  took  my  baby 
away  from  me  in  THE  SAND  BAR. 

TOM 

So  far  as  I  was  concerned  that  was  the  only  decent 
thing  you  did.    I  had  to  make  money  for  the  child. 

MARIE 

Have  you  forgotten  that  was  the  other  reason  I  left 
him?    He  didn't  love  our  child:  it  was  in  his  way. 

TOM 
Love  a  mewling,  puking  child?    Not  much. 

GRANT 

(Trying  to  calm  her  as  she  walks  up  and  down) 
Sh!     Control  yourself. 


44  MASKS 

MARIE 

My  love  for  the  child  was  the  only  decent  thing 
about  me. 

GRANT 

But  I  gave  you  other  virtues.  I  made  you  love  your 
husband. 

MARIE 

If  I  had  to  love  my  husband  in  your  revised  version 
couldn't  I  at  least  have  kept  my  child? 

GRANT 

Don't  be  unreasonable.  No  leading  lady  wants  a 
child. 

MARIE 
So  you  took  it  away  to  please  the  leading  lady! 

GRANT 

Can't  you  understand  if  I'd  given  her  a  child  it 
would  have  complicated  matters? 

TOM 

You're  right.  It  certainly  complicated  matters  for 
me. 

GRANT 

(Trying  to  explain) 

I  wanted  the  struggle  to  be  a  simple  one  between 
two  men  and  a  woman.  A  child  would  have  been 
a  side-issue. 


MASKS  45 

MARIE 

You  call  my  child  a  side-issue!  (Looking  at  Tom.) 
Hasn't  his  father  anything  to  say  to  that? 

TOM 

(To  GRANT) 

She  can't  get  me  excited  about  that  brat.  It  stood 
in  my  way.  I'd  have  killed  it  myself  if  necessary. 

MARIE 
(To  GRANT) 
But  you  killed  it  instead. 

GRANT 

(Losing  patience) 

Yes.  I  killed  it  for  the  same  reason  he  would  have: 
because  it  would  have  stood  in  the  way  of  the  play's 
success.  Are  you  a  couple  of  fools?  Can't  you  both 
get  into  your  heads  I  was  writing  a  play  to  make 
money  ? 

TOM 
Money!     Money  again! 

MARIE 

(Astonished  as  she  comes  to  GRANT) 
So  you  killed  it  for  money? 

GRANT 
Yes.    Just  as  I  changed  you  both  for  money. 


46  MASKS 

TOM 

If  you'd  killed  it  for  art  I  would  have  understood. 
But  to  kill  a  creature  for  money!  You  are  a  mur 
derer  ! 

MARIE 

(Sneering) 

And  how  much  blood  money  will  you  get  for  what 
you  have  done? 

GRANT 

A  thousand  dollars  a  week! 

MARIE 
(Overcome) 
My  God! 

TOM 
(Awed) 
How  much  did  you  say? 

GRANT 
A  thousand  a  week. 

MARIE 

You're  going  to  get  that  much  for  putting  me  into 
a  popular  success? 

GRANT 
Yes. 


MASKS  47 

TOM 


She  isn't  worth  it. 


GRANT 

(Determined  to  have  it  out  with  them) 
It  was  worth  it  to  me.  Think  of  the  exquisite  joy 
I  had  in  revising  my  problem  drama.  Think  of  how 
I  turned  two  hectic,  distorted,  twisted,  selfish,  miser 
able,  little-souled  characters  into  two  self-sacrificing, 
sugar-coated,  lovable  beings! 

TOM 

You  are  not  only  a  murderer  but  a  hypocrite:  you 
distorted  life  to  win  sympathy  for  us. 

GRANT 

The  theater  no  longer  has  anything  to  do  with  life. 
It's  a  palace  of  personality. 

TOM 
Well,  what's  the  matter  with  my  personality? 

MARIE 
Leaving  him  aside,  what  about  me? 

GRANT 

You  wouldn't  draw  a  cent.    There  wasn't  a  dollar 
in  either  of  you. 

MARIE 
Is  that  my  fault?     You  made  us  what  we  are. 


48  MASKS 

GRANT 

Yes;  before  I  learned  that  the  public  pays  to  be 
pleased.  Do  you  think  there's  anything  pleasing  about 
either  of  you?  Why,  you  couldn't  even  be  happy  to 
gether. 

TOM 
This  is  getting  damned  personal. 

MARIE 

What  right  has  the  public  got  to  be  so  proud  of 
itself?  There's  many  a  woman  in  the  audience  worse 
than  I  am. 

GRANT 

But  they  want  to  be  flattered  into  believing  they  are 
as  much  like  heroes  and  heroines  as  you  are  not.  The 
successful  playwright,  like  the  fashionable  portrait 
painter,  flatters  and  never  reveals. 

TOM 
While  true  artists  like  me  starve? 

GRANT 

And  dramatists  who  write  "  Lonely  Ways "  also 
starve.  What  are  you  two  kicking  so  about?  Because 
I've  made  you  respectable,  wealthy  and  happy?  Do 
you  think  the  general  public  cares  a  whoop  in  Hades 
what  7  think  of  life,  of  my  peculiar  slant  on  the  motives 
that  mess  up  the  characters  that  happen  to  interest  me? 
No:  all  they  want  is  what  they  want  life  to  be. 


MASKS  49 

TOM 

How  little  you  know  of  human  nature.  If  we'd  had 
a  chance  to  be  our  true  selves  we  would  have  been 
appreciated. 

GRANT 

By  whom,  pray?  A  few  professional  soul  lovers. 
And  they'd  get  into  the  theater  on  passes.  No.  You 
are  caviar;  most  of  the  world  lives  on  mush.  So  I 
mixed  you  in  mush,  sentimental  glue,  anything  you 
want  to  call  it. 

TOM 

You  disgust  me. 

MARIE 

But  /  see  hope  for  you.  At  heart  you  despise  the 
crowd,  as  I  did  its  smug  conventions. 

GRANT 

(Bitterly) 
I  hate  what  it  has  made  me  suffer. 

TOM 

Every  great  artist  has  despised  them.  I  despise 
them. 

GRANT 

(More  seriously) 

Only  I  think  the  public  has  its  rights.  They  have 
the  right  to  laugh,  to  watch  virtue  triumph,  to  behold 


50  MASKS 

success,  to  feel  love  win  out,  to  see  what  they  think  is 
happiness.  They  have  that  right  because  their  own 
lives  are  so  full  of  the  other  things.  And  maybe  they 
like  to  dream  a  little,  too. 

MARIE 
Who's  mushy  now? 

GRANT 

Don't  sneer  at  a  popular  success.  It's  sometimes 
more  difficult  to  perform  a  trick  than  climb  a  mountain 
peak. 

TOM 
Have  we  artists  no  rights? 

GRANT 
(  Wearily ) 
Only  the  right  to  dream  and  starve. 

MARIE 

But  I'm  not  an  artist:  I'm  one  of  your  creations. 
Have  7  no  rights?  Must  I  be  turned  into  a  trained 
poodle  and  do  tricks  for  money  ? 

GRANT 
You  are  only  a  phantom,  a  projection,  a  figment. 

MARIE 

(With  great  indignation) 
You  call  me  a  figment? 


MASKS  51 

TOM 

(Rising  ominously) 

I'm  tired  of  hearing  you  insult  your  own  flesh  and 
blood. 

GRANT 

I  disowned  you  both  when  I  rewrote  you.  I  was 
thinking  then  of  only  one  thing:  the  public. 

TOM 

Liar!  You  did  deceive  yourself!  You  were  think 
ing  of  your  wife  and  child. 

MARIE 

(Seeing  GRANT  is  startled) 
That  gets  you.     You  did  this  to  us  for  them. 

GRANT 

(Himself  serious  now  throughout) 
Yes.    I  was  thinking  of  them  most  of  all. 

MARIE 

Yet  when  you  created  Tom  Robinson  in  THE 
LONELY  WAY  you  did  not  let  him  think  of  his  wife 
and  child. 

TOM 

That's  where  I  was  bigger  than  you,  Grant 
Williams! 

GRANT 
You  mean  more  brutal. 


52  MASKS 

TOM 

Mush.  Mush.  You  can't  hide  behind  that.  (1m- 
pressively.)  I  am  you!  I  could  never  have  lived  had 
I  not  been  a  wish  hidden  in  yourself.  I  am  what  you 
would  have  been  if  you  had  dared! 

GRANT 

How  dare  you  say  a  thing  like  that?  I  made  you. 
I  knew  you  inside  and  out. 

TOM 

But  you  didn't  know  yourself.  I  knew  when  you 
wrote  me  that  you  wanted  to  be  as  relentless  as  you 
made  me. 

GRANT 

I  hated  you.  I  hated  every  bone  beneath  your 
miserable  hide! 

TOM 

(With   a   triumphant  smile) 

That  only  proves  it!  You  were  afraid  to  be  your 
self;  so  you  created  me! 

GRANT 
(Shrinking  back) 

No    ...    No    ..   , 

TOM 

You  forget  people  have  made  gods  and  devils  out  of 
their  own  dreams  to  worship  and  hate.  Look  at  me, 
through  the  mask  you  gave  me,  and  see  yourself!  I 


MASKS  53 

was  the  worst  of  what  was  human  in  you — the  devil 
side  of  you:  I  was  the  best  of  what  was  the  artist  in 
you — the  God  within  you! 

GRANT 

(As  though  stunned  by  the  thought} 
God  and  devil.     No   ...   No   ... 

MARIE 

(Seriously) 

Now  I  see  how  /  came  into  being.  I  was  your 
wife,  as  part  of  you  saw  her!  (He  protests.)  She  was 
in  your  way,  as  I  was  in  his  way.  You  made  Tom 
close  the  door  on  me  because,  deep  in  your  soul,  you 
wished  to  close  it  on  her.  She  never  understood. 

GRANT 

Stop.  You  shan't  go  any  further.  She  stood  by  me 
through  all  these  years  of  poverty.  She  loves  me  and 
understands. 

MARIE 

(Relentlessly) 

But  you  thought  her  a  fool  for  loving  you.  You 
really  thought  she  ought  to  go.  You  wanted  her  to 
go,  I  tell  you.  You  wanted  her  to  see  that  your  art 
meant  more  to  you  than  her  love.  But  you  didn't  have 
the  courage  to  do  to  her  what  you  made  him  do  to  me ! 

GRANT 

(To  TOM) 

Take  her  away!  I  won't  let  her  say  these  things. 
I  did  what  I  did  to  you  for  Jerry's  sake.  I  wanted  to 


54  MASKS 

make  money  so  she  would  be  happy.     I  couldn't  stand 
it  to  see  her  hands  grow  rough    .    .    . 


TOM 

(Contemptuously) 

Bosh!  Art  denies  all  human  responsibility.  You 
made  me  face  that  truth  with  my  wife,  and  when  I 
threw  her  out  I  was  your  own  inner  answer  to  that 
eternal  question! 

GRANT 
I  tell  you  my  love  for  her  is  greater  than  for  my  art. 

MARIE 
Mush.    Mush.    It's  time  to  think  of  punishment. 

GRANT 

Punishment?  (Triumphantly)  I  have  a  thousand 
a  week.  She  will  have  clothes  and  comfort.  And  you 
talk  of  punishment! 

MARIE 

(Drawing  a  pistol  and  pointing  it  at  him) 
What  you  did  to  us  means  your  death. 

TOM 

(Stopping  her} 

No.  You  cannot  be  killed,  Grant  Williams.  You 
are  dead  already. 


MASKS  55 

MARIE 

(About  to  shoot) 
I  think  I'll  make  sure. 

TOM 

(As  GRANT  stares  at  him  spellbound) 
When  you  turned  your  soul  into  money  you  died. 
There  is  a  greater  punishment.    We'll  let  what  remains 
of  you  live,   as  we  shall  live  to  haunt  you   in  your 
dreams. 

GRANT 

(Laughing  hysterically) 

But  you  can't  live.  I  killed  you.  You're  dead,  too. 
And  the  dead  cannot  dream. 

TOM 
We  are  your  dreams.    We  will  outlast  you. 

MARIE 

We  live.  We  shall  go  on  living.  Yes.  That  is  a 
greater  revenge.  We'll  haunt  you  every  time  you  are 
alone.  .  .  . 

GRANT 
You  can't.     You  can't    .    .    . 

TOM 

Whenever  you  smoke  and  think  in  your  new 
house 


56  MASKS 

MARIE 

Or  walk  Ijy  the  sands,  you  will  see  only  our  hands 
beckon  you  from  the  living  waters  of  the  sea    ... 


GRANT 

(Frantically) 

I'll  drown  you  like  rats.  I'll  keep  you  under  till 
you  are  dead.  You  shan't  come  back  .  .  .  ever 
.  .  .  ever  .  .  .  (They  both  laugh.)  Get  out. 
You  phantoms  .  .  .  I'll  kill  you  again  .  .  . 

TOM 
Mush    .    .    .    Mush    .    .    . 

GRANT 

I'll  kill  you  forever  now.  (He  picks  up  the  manu 
script  of  THE  LONELY  WAY  and  savagely  tears  it 
up.)  Die.  Die  forever  .  .  .  Die  .  .  . 

(They   laugh   loudly  and  mockingly  at  him.) 

TOM 
You  see  we  still  live ! 

GRANT 

Ah.    I'll  kill  you  yet.    I'll  kill  you! 

(He  rushes   towards   them   and   overturns   the 
lamp.     They  laugh  mockingly  farther  off  in  the 
complete  darkness.) 
I'll  kill  you!     I'll  kill  you! 


MASKS  57 

JERRY 

(As  she  enters) 
Grant!!     What  is  the  matter? 

(She  turns  on  the  switch  by  the  door.  The 
other  lights  flare  up.  She  is  dressed  in  a  kimono, 
with  her  hair  in  braids.  He  rushes  towards 
her.) 

GRANT 
I'll  kill  you! 

JERRY 
Grant ! 

(He  holds  her  arms,  suddenly  realizing  who  she 
is  and  that  they  are  alone.) 

GRANT 
You  are  real,  aren't  you  ?    You  are  flesh  and  blood  ? 

JERRY 

Silly  boy.  What  on  earth  is  the  matter  with  you? 
I  go  out  of  the  room  for  a  moment  and  I  come  back 
to  find  you  yelling  and  wanting  to  kill  me. 

GRANT 

(Still  dazed) 

No.  It  wasn't  true:  I  don't  want  to  get  rid  of  you. 
I  ... 

JERRY 

(In  a  matter-of-fact  tone) 

I  do  wish  you'd  gel  over  the  habit  of  acting  all 
your  plays  out.  The  neighbors  will  think  you  and  I 


58  MASKS 

aren't  happy.    You'd  better  come  to  bed  and  get  some 
rest. 

GRANT 
I — I  couldn't  sleep  just  now. 

(He  goes  over  to  the  table  and  sees  the  manu 
script  of  THE  LONELY  WAY  untouched.  He 
stands  trying  to  collect  himself.) 

JERRY 
It's  upset  you,  reading  over  THE  LONELY  WAY? 

GRANT 

(Half  to  himself) 
That's  strange. 

JERRY 
Then  what  is  the  matter? 

GRANT 

(Evasively  as  he  sits  down  wearily) 
I — I  Was  reading  over  the  notices. 

JERRY 

I  should  have  thought  they'd  soothe  you,  not  get 
you  so  excited.  Though  there  is  one  that  put  me  in  a 
terrible  temper.  (He  looks  at  her  quickly.)  Why 
did  you  conceal  the  Gazette  notice  from  me?  (Smil 
ing,  she  shows  it  to  him:  he  takes  it.)  Did  you  think 
this  would  worry  me  because  Arthur  Black  said  THE 
SAND  BAR  didn't  live  up  to  the  promise  of  your  other 
plays? 


MASKS  59 

GRANT 

(Half  to  himself) 

And  he  was  the  only  one  who  liked  the  others  that 
failed. 

JERRY 

But  it  is  outrageous  of  him  to  say  you'd  deserted 
your  ideals.    I  have  half  a  mind  to  write  to  the  Editor. 

GRANT 

(With  a  thought) 
Would  it  mean  so  very  much  to  you  if  it  were  true  ? 

JERRY 
Of  course  it  would. 

GRANT 

(Defensively) 

But,  after  all,  Jerry,  does  it  make  any  difference  to 
anybody  but  the  artist  whether  he  sells  out  or  not  ? 

JERRY 

•   But,  dear,  /  think  you've  just  begun  to  reach  your 
ideals. 

GRANT 

Just  begun? 

JERRY 

Yes.     I  never  told  you  before  because  I  didn't  want 
to  discourage  you  when  we  were  so  hard  up.     But, 


60  MASKS 

Grant  dear,  I  never  liked  all  those  other  plays — 
especially  THE  LONELY  WAY.  They  seemed  un 
worthy  of  you.  THE  SAND  BAR  is  the  first  play 
that  really  seems  true  to  life. 

GRANT 

(Staring  at  her) 
Really  true  to  life? 

JERRY 

Yes.  And  I  hope  from  now  on  you'll  go  on  writing 
the  plays  that  will  make  people  feel  happier  and  .  .  . 

GRANT 

(Suddenly  bursting  out  in  an  ironic  laugh) 
I've  got  it.    I've  got  it. 

JERRY 
What? 

GRANT 

The  curtain  raiser  Trebaro  wants.  I'll  call  it  THE 
MASK.  No.  MASKS!  That's  the  title.  I'll  show 
them  whether  I'm  dead  or  not. 

JERRY 
What  are  you  talking  of? 

GRANT 

The  theme  of  my  play:  that  so  long  as  an  artist 
knows  what  he  is  doing  with  his  art  he  is  alive:  that 
the  only  thing  which  can  kill  him  is  self-deception. 


MASKS  6 1 

JERRY 

Dear  me,  you're  going  to  write  another  play  nobody 
will  understand? 

GRANT 

(Contemptuously) 

Why  should  I  care  whether  anybody  will  under 
stand  it? 

JERRY 
But  Trebaro  won't  produce  it,  dear. 

GRANT 

Oh  yes,  he  will:  he  said  he'd  produce  anything  I 
wrote  no  matter  how  good  it  was. 

JERRY 

(Seeing  him  eagerly  go  to  his  typewriter) 
You're  going  to  begin  it  now? 

GRANT 
Yes.    Now.    I  can  write  it  off  at  a  sitting. 

JERRY 
To-night — of  all  nights? 

GRANT 

Yes.  As  Tom  said :  while  the  "  glow "  is  here. 
Now  that  I'm  free.  I'll  show  them  whether  I'm  dead 
or  not.  I'll  use  their  very  words.  I'll  make  it  bite. 


62  MASKS 

JERRY 

(Completely  lost) 

I  don't  understand  you  or  what  you  are  talking 
about. 

GRANT 

(Gives  her  a  look) 

You  don't  need  to  understand  now,  Jerry;  THE 
SAND  BAR  has  released  you. 

JERRY 

(Hurt) 

I   never  heard  you   talk  like  this  before.     You're 
unkind. 

GRANT 

(Putting  paper  in  machine) 
I  don't  mean  to  be,  dear ;  only  my  nerves  are  on  edge. 

JERRY 

(Begins  to  cry) 
I  can  see  that.    You've  no  regard  for  my  feelings, 

GRANT 

I  have  my  work    *    .    . 

JERRY 

You  seem  so  far  off  all  of  a  sudden.    To-night  of  all 
nights !    Just  when  you've  made  your  first  real  success ! 


MASKS  63 

GRANT 
(More  testily) 

Please.    Please,  Jerry.    I  won't  be  able  to  write  this 
if  I  have  to  think  of  anything  else. 

(He  begins  to  write.    He  looks  about  the  room 
showing  he  is  describing  it.) 

"  The  scene  is  the  living-room  in  a  flat.    The  doorway 
from  the  public  stairs  opens  immediately  upon  it  with 
out  the  intervening  privacy  of  a  small  hallway    ..." 
(He  murmurs  as  he  goes  on,  striking  the  keys 
very  rapidly.     She  stands  looking  at  him — hurt 
and  wondering  what  it  means:  but  he  is  ab 
sorbed.     Then  she  slowly  goes  to  the  kerosene 
heater  and  lights  it.     She  looks  at  him  a  mo 
ment.) 

JERRY 

I  guess  I  won't  wait  up  for  you  to-night.  Fm  cold. 
(She  goes  out,  hardly  controlling  herself.  He 
continues  for  a  moment.  Then  he  gets  up,  still 
absorbed,  and  closes  the  door  after  her.  He 
resumes  his  work  with  the  glow  of  intense  crea 
tion  on  his  face.) 


[CURTAIN] 


JIM'S    BEAST 


THE  PEOPLE 

BRONTOSAURUS,  a  fossil. 
SARAH,  a  scrubwoman. 
PROFESSOR  POHL,  a  curator. 
ROBERT  HOOD,  a  member  of  the  Legislature. 
ELIZABETH  LIVINGSTON,  a  seeker  of  sensations. 
MRS.  CORNELIUS  VAN  DYKE,  a  social  leader. 
MRS.  JAMES  MORROW,  a  wealthy  woman. 
ROBERT  LIVINGSTON,  a  good  citizen. 
LARRY  ANDERSON,  a  doughboy. 


SCENE 

A  corner  in  the  Hall  of  Paleontology  of  a  Public 
Museum;  late  one  afternoon. 


JIM'S    BEAST* 

r  f  iWO  arched  passageways  are  in  back,  and  be- 
t  tween  them,  on  the  wall,  is  a  large  dark  plaster 

•^  cast  which  may  be  a  replica  of  the  famous  Dino 
saur  footprints  in  Broiunstone.  Beneath  this  is  a  low 
bench.  At  the  extreme  right,  as  one  enters  from  back, 
there  are  two  cases,  just  visible,  in  which  are  fos.sil  bones 
and  casts.  There  is  a  bench  near  them  and  an  aisle  be 
tween  which  leads  off  to  the  windows  beyond,  suggested 
by  the  soft  streams  of  sunlight  which  shoot  over  the  tops 
of  the  cases  to  the  BRONTOSAURUS  opposite.  Only  the 
dull-colored  flat  skull  and  a  portion  of  the  neck  of  this 
venerable  fossil  are  to  be  seen,  projecting  about  a 
yard  or  two.  It  stands  seven  feet  above  its  low  plat 
form,  which  is  surrounded  by  a  railing.  On  this  is 
a  slanted  sign  which  describes  it.  Its  size,  its  grimness 
and  the  light  which  rests  upon  it  make  it  dominate 
everything.  The  remainder  of  the  huge  dinosaur  is 
masked  by  a  high  screen  at  its  left,  upon  which  hangs 
a  map  indicating  by  its  varied  horizontal  shades  of 
color,  the  various  geological  strata  and  periods. 

When  the  curtain  slowly  lifts,  SARAH,  a  scrubwoman, 
is  on  her  knees,  mopping  the  floor  with  long  practised 
sweeps. 

She  is  fifty,  heavy,  with  a  dull  tired  face  lined  by 

*  Copyright  by  George  Middleton.    See  back  of  title  page. 


68  JIM'S  BEAST 

years  of  physical  toil.  Though  her  hair  is  tightly  drawn 
back  and  tied  in  a  knot,  several  long  wisps  jail  across 
her  eyes  as  she  leans  forward  over  her  work;  and  she 
continually  pushes  these  back  with  her  arm,  since  her 
hands  are  wet  and  soapy. 

As   she   wrings   her   rag   savagely   she   mumbles   to 
herself  in  a  rich  Irish  brogue. 

SARAH 
Scrub.      Mop.      Scrub.       (She    looks    up    at    the 

BRONTOSAURUS.)     Keepin'  watch  on  me,  too,  ye  dirty 

heathen.     Grinnin'  there  every  day  at  me  a-scrubbin' 

and  moppin'. 

(She  raises  the  rag,  in  momentary  revolt,  as 
though  she  were  about  to  throw  it  at  the  skull. 
But  she  stops  sullenly  as  she  mechanically  re 
sumes  her  work.) 

Ye  dirty  heathen    .    .    .    me  a-scrubbin'   .    .    . 

(As  she  finds  a  hairpin  and  sticks  it  in  her  hair, 
PROF.  POHL  enters,  carrying  a  small  plaster 
cast  in  which  is  embedded  the  outlines  of  a  fossil. 

PROF.  POHL,  the  curator,  is  a  short,  round- 
shouldered  man  nearing  sixty.  He  is  absorbed 
in  his  scientific  interest,  devoid  of  conscious 
humor  and  fundamentally  inclined  to  be  im 
patient  with  anything  that  has  not  been  dead 
for  at  least  several  million  years.) 

PROFESSOR 
Good  afternoon,  Sarah. 


JIM'S  BEAST  69 

SARAH 
(Mumbling  half  to  herself  resentfully,  as  he  walks  over 

where  she  has  just  mopped) 
And  I  was  just  after  a-moppin'  up  that  place. 

PROFESSOR 
You're  cleaning  up  earlier  than  usual. 

SARAH 

Wipe  'em  up  as  they  comes,  says  I :  it's  easier  in  the 
end. 

/  PROFESSOR 

But  I'm  expecting  over  two  hundred  soldiers  here 
this  afternoon. 

SARAH 
(Astonished) 
Here?    What's  the  matter  with  'em? 

PROFESSOR 
They're  slightly  wounded. 

SARAH 

Shure:  that  explains  it. 

PROFESSOR 

All  the  theaters  are  entertaining  them  so  I've  in 
vited  them  here.  I  thought  the  soldiers  might  enjoy 
having  me  personally  show  them  through  the  paleonto- 
logical  section.  Dr.  Taylor  has  volunteered  to  explain 
the  mummies. 


70  JIM'S  BEAST 

SARAH 

What  between  these  dead  'uns  and  them  ould  ladies 
the  boys'll  be  havin'  a  foine  time,  all  roight. 

PROFESSOR 
I  thought  it  might  be  edifying,  too. 

SARAH 

(As  she  resumes  her  mopping) 

They'll  be  a-makin'  more  work  for  me;  but  foot 
prints  is  footprints  no  matter  who  makes  'em. 

PROFESSOR 

(Looking  in  case  at  the  right) 
Now  where 's  that  card? 

(He  tries  to  get  key  out  of  pocket  to  open  case 
but  he  is  afraid  of  breaking  the  cast.) 
Sarah,  will  you  assist  me? 

SARAH 
Me!    Touch  one  of  them  dead  corpses? 

PROFESSOR 
No;  no.     That's  so;  you'd  get  them  wet. 

(She  watches  him  as  he  goes  to  bench  and  lays 
the  cast  down  carefully  on  the  handkerchief  he 
has  spread  for  it.  Then  he  goes  over  to  case, 
opens  it  with  a  key,  returns  for  cast  and  puts 
it  with  care  and  affection  in  the  case.) 

SARAH 
Ye'd  be  a-thinkin'  it  was  a  baby  ye  was  puttin'  to  bed. 


JIM'S  BEAST  71 

PROFESSOR 
(Admiring  them} 
All  these  are  my  children,  Sarah. 

SARAH 

(Mumbling  as  she  looks  up  at  the  BRONTOSAURUS) 
I'd  see  a  doctor  about  it  if  I  was  their  mother. 

PROFESSOR 

There.  (He  closes  the  case.)  That's  a  very  rare 
Pterodactyl.  (She  is  somehow  not  impressed.)  I've 
reconstructed  it  from  five  tiny  bones  found  in  Oregon. 

SARAH 

(Wringing  mop  with  a  contemptuous  look  at  him) 
Why  go  to  all  that  trouble? 

PROFESSOR 

I'm  afraid  you  wouldn't  understand.  I  study  fossils, 
Sarah,  because  it  is  my  profession — just  as  scrubbing  is 
yours. 

SARAH 
Do  ye  have  to  do  it? 

PROFESSOR 
No;  I  chose  it.     I'm  very  happy  in  it. 

SARAH 

What  I'd  loike  to  know  is  why  I've  got  to  scrub  and 
mop  all  the  day?  I  don't  do  it  for  pleasure. 


72  JIM'S  BEAST 

PROFESSOR 

(Failing  to  see  the  human  analogy) 
Somebody's  got  to  keep  the  Museum  clean. 

SARAH 

(Seeing  him  blow  off  some  clay  from  bench) 
Yes.     Some  o'  us  is  born  to  wipe  up  other  people's 
dirt,  and  some's  born  to  make  it.     (Wiping  it.)     Why 
can't  everybody  clean  up  his  own  dirt,  says  I  ?    Maybe 
they  wouldn't  be  makin'  so  much. 

PROFESSOR 

I  daresay  you're  right.  (Over  by  the  BRONTO- 
SAURUS.)  You've  forgotten  to  run  your  rag  over  this 
platform. 

SARAH 

(Rebelliously) 

Ye  don't  git  me  inside  th'  rail  with  that  dirty 
heathen. 

PROFESSOR 

The  superintendent  tells  me  he's  had  to  remind  you 
every  day. 

SARAH 

(Her  revolt  rises) 

If  I've  got  to  go  inside  there  alone  ye  can  tell  'im 
I'm  through.  There's  plenty  of  dirty  places  in  the 
wrorld  what  needs  cleanin'  and  if  I've  got  to  mop  I'm 
going  to  do  me  own  pickin'  of  dirt  an'  places. 


JJM'S  BEAST  73 

PROFESSOR 
(Firmly) 
But  you  forget  you're  paid  for  this. 

SARAH 

If  ye'll  pardon  my  saying  so  I  ain't  paid  to  go 
rubbin'  agin'  the  slats  of  that  dirty  heathen  loike  you. 
I'm  paid  me  two  an'  a  quarter  a  day  to  wash  up 
people's  tracks.  Two  an'  a  quarter  a  day,  mind  ye, 
by  this  place  what  owns  jewels  and  things  they  wraps 
up  in  satins  and  laces  what  honest  people  could  git 
some  comfort  out  of — and  the  cost  of  livin'  mountin' 
high  as  St.  Peter  himself. 

PROFESSOR 
(Impatiently) 

If  you  won't  keep  it  clean,  there  are  plenty  of  scrub 
women  who  will. 

SARAH 

Ye  care  more  for  the  looks  of  that  dirty  heathen 
than  ye  do  for  my  feelin's. 

PROFESSOR 
(Outraged} 

Sarah!  You  forget  there  are  only  a  few  fossils  like 
this  in  existence!  I  don't  want  to  have  to  report  you 
for  lack  of  respect. 

SARAH 

Shure,  it's  not  ye  I'm  not  respectin' — it's  that  other 
inhuman  beast. 


74  JIM'S  BEAST 

PROFESSOR 
Now  be  a  sensible  girl  and  run  your  rag  over  it. 

SARAH 

(Sullenly  as  her  revolt  subsides) 
Oh,  all  roight.    It's  seein'  it  in  me  sleep  I  am  as  it  is. 
(She  slowly  picks  up  the  mop  and  pail  and  goes 
under  the  rail,  cautiously  rubbing  the  platform 
with  wide  stretched  arms.) 

PROFESSOR 
Around  the  feet,  Sarah. 

SARAH 

They're  so  big  it's  glad  I  am  they've  put  a  brass  rail 
around  'im  so  he  can't  be  prowlin'  about  at  night  track- 
in'  the  place  up.  It's  bad  enough  some  of  the  people 
what  come  here  to  see  him. 

PROFESSOR 

But  you  have  less  to  clean  up  than  some  of  the  other 
girls.  (Sighing.)  So  few  people  wander  in  this  out 
of  the  way  section. 


SARAH 

Ye  don't  think  anyone  would  be  fool  enough  to  look 
:  these  corpses  for  pleasure,  do  ye? 


SARAH 

Ye  don't  think  anyor 
at 

PROFESSOR 


I  suppose  not. 


JIM'S  BEAST  75 

SARAH 

Even  though  it  means  more  work  to  my  poor  back, 
I'm  goin'  to  ask  to  be  put  over  where  the  cases  of 
butterflies  are.  When  I  was  a-scrubbin'  around  them 
I  could  be  thinkin'  that  I  was  out  among  the  daisies, 
instead  of  hangin'  'round  a  morgue. 

PROFESSOR 

That's  much  better,  Sarah.  (Gazing  in  admiration 
at  the  fossil.)  Wonderful  specimen — wonderful! 

(ROBERT  HOOD  enters.  He  is  a  well  set-up, 
attractive  young  man  about  thirty.  As  he 
glances  impatiently  at  his  watch,  it  is  evident 
he  is  ill  at  ease  and  under  the  stress  of  an  un 
usual  emotion.  Though  he  carries  a  Museum 
catalogue  it  is  soon  apparent  he  has  come  for  a 
rendezvous. 

SARAH    so  on   disappears   from   view — scrub 
bing.) 

HOOD 

I  beg  your  pardon.  Is  this  where  the  Brontosaurus 
lives? 

PROFESSOR 
Yes.      (Proudly)   This  is  the  Brontosaurus. 

HOOD 

(Indifferently) 
Oh,  is  it?     Thanks. 


76  JIM'S  BEAST 

PROFESSOR 
Are  you  interested  in  fossils? 

HOOD 
Fossils? — Oh,  yes;  but  only  the  living  ones. 

PROFESSOR 
Oh,  then  you've  come  to  see  the  Hoatzins? 

HOOD 

(Impatiently) 
Not  especially. 

PROFESSOR 

They're  in  the  ornithological  section.  Curious,  isn't 
it,  when  people  think  fossils  are  so  remote,  that  to-day 
in  the  thorn  bushes  along  the  Berbice  River  there 
should  be  a  small  living  bird  who  swims,  creeps,  climbs, 
dives  and  can  duplicate  within  a  few  minutes  the 
processes  of  evolution  through  the  centuries.  Mr. 
Beebe  calls  them  "living  fossils";  so  when  you 
said  .  .  . 

HOOD 

(Again  looking  at  his  watch) 
It's  very  interesting. 

PROFESSOR 

Their  wing  formation  somewhat  resembles  the 
Archaeopteryx.  We  have  a  cast  of  the  Solenhofen 
specimen,  if  you  .  .  . 


JIM'S  BEAST  77 

HOOD 

I  have  a  catalogue.     I'd  like  to  study  them  myself, 
quietly  at  first,  if  you  don't  mind. 

(He  sits  down  on  the  bench  at  back  and  opens 
the  catalogue.  The  PROFESSOR  is  offended, 
gives  him  a  look  and  goes  out.  The  minute  he 
has  gone,  HOOD  arises,  takes  several  steps  about 
as  though  looking  for  someone.  SARAH  has 
entered  with  her  pail  and  watches  him.  She 
stands  there,  a  worn  and  abject  figure.  HOOD 
takes  out  his  watch  again.) 

SARAH 
I  beg  ye  pardon  ? 

HOOD 

(Startled  a  moment) 
Eh? 

SARAH 
Do  ye  be  havin'  the  toime  about  ye? 

HOOD 

My  watch  says  four.    But  I  think  it  must  be  fast. 

SARAH 

(As  she  wearily  crosses) 
Thank  ye,  sir. 

HOOD 

(A  bit  anxiously) 
When  does  the  Museum  close? 


78  JIM'S  BEAST 

SARAH 
For  ye  or  for  me? 

HOOD 
Why,  for  me;  of  course. 

SARAH 

Ye'll  hear  the  bell  in  a  half-hour;  it's  not  long  after 
that  I'll  be  a-pullin'  up  these  shades. 

HOOD 

Thanks. 

SARAH 

(Pointedly  as  she  begins  to  wash  up  his  footsteps) 
If  ye  need  more  toime  to  look  at  the  animals  ye  may 
be  doin'  it,  as  the  Professor  is  expectin'  a  whole  regi 
ment  of  soldiers. 

HOOD 

(Vexed) 
Coming  here?    I  thought  nobody  ever  came  here? 

SARAH 

Ye  mustn't  be  surprised  at  anythin'  in  a  museum. 
All  the  strange  animals  ain't  behind  the  railin's. 

(She  gives  him  a  knowing  look  and  finally 
goes  out  of  sight,  mopping  down  the  aisle, 
He  takes  a  step  impatiently  and  then  sits  in 
back  and  opens  catalogue  aimlessly  as  he  sees 
MRS.  CORNELIUS  VAN  DYKE  and  MRS.  JAMES 


JIM'S  BEAST  79 

MORROW  enter  from  back.     They  do  not  notice 
him  at  first. 

MRS.  VAN  DYKE  is  a  harmless  middle- 
aged  woman  who  throughout  life  has  comfort 
ably  relied  on  her  blood  instead  of  her  brains. 
She  hides  the  absence  of  the  latter  by  a  calm  and 
superior  imperturbability. 

Her  companion,  MRS.  JAMES  MORROW,  is 
younger;  obviously  nouveau  riche,  she  has 
achieved  a  successful  manner,  most  of  which  is 
dexterously  expressed  in  her  lorgnette. 

Both  wjomen  are  handsomely  gowned  and 
proclaim  to  the  observer  flaunting  wealth.) 

MRS.  VAN  DYKE 
I'm  sure  we've  lost  our  way. 

MRS.  MORROW 
The  attendant  said  keep  turning  to  the  right. 

MRS.  VAN  DYKE 
I  can't  say  it's  my  idea  of  ancient  jewelry. 

MRS.  MORROW 

No.    But  if  we  dressed  up  at  Mrs.  Bilton's  ball  like 
some  of  these  animals,  we'd  certainly  make  a  hit. 

MRS.  VAN  DYKE 

It  might  suit  you,  dear;  but  I  think  I'll  wear  at 
least  some  jewelry.     I'm  sure  there  must  be  wonderful 


8o  JIM'S  BEAST 

old  pieces  in  the  museum  I  can  get  Tiffany  to  copy 
in  time.     I  must  find  something  original. 

MRS.  MORROW 

(Looking  absently   at    HOOD   through    her   lorgnette} 
Dear  me,  this  is  a  terrible  place — full  of  monsters. 

MRS.  VAN  DYKE 

I  can't  say  they're  very  showy.  (Glancing  at  the 
BRONTOSAURUS.)  What  an  ugly  animal!  What 
is  it? 

MRS.  MORROW 
(Reading  sign) 

It's  a  Bron —  (Not  able  to  pronounce  it  and  turn 
ing  away)  I  left  my  reading-glasses  at  home.  You 
try. 

MRS.  VAN  DYKE 
(After  studying  it  a  moment) 

Oh,  yes:  I've  heard  of  them.  (More  closely.) 
Why,  that  looks  like  your  husband  .  .  . 

MRS.  MORROW 

(Interrupting,  as  she  turns  quickly  to  the  fossil) 
My  husband?    That? 

MRS.  VAN  DYKE 
(Looking  more  closely) 

Yes.  It  is  your  husband's  name.  (Reading) 
"  Donated  by  James  Morrow." 


JIM'S  BEAST  81 

MRS.  MORROW 
Why  this  must  be  Jim's  beast! 

MRS.  VAN  DYKE 
Jim's  beast? 

(Hooo  covertly  shows  a  bit  of  interest  in  spite 
of  his  more  pressing  impatience  over  their 
presence.) 

MRS.  MORROW 

I  knew  there  was  something  here  Jim  wanted  me  to 
see.  He  donated  $250,000  to  the  museum  last  year. 
He  said  they'd  bought  some  old  animal  with  it. 

MRS.  VAN  DYKE 

I  can't  say  I  admire  his  taste.  I  thought  he  went 
in  for  horses. 

MRS.  MORROW 

Of  course,  it's  Jim's  own  money;  but  it  does  seem 
a  bit  extravagant  to  turn  all  that  money  into  old  bones. 

MRS.  VAN  DYKE 

Yes;  when  he  might  buy  so  many  nicer  things  you 
could  wear. 

MRS.  MORROW 

Jim's  been  awfully  generous  to  me;  though,  of 
course,  now  that  the  war's  over  we've  got  to  hold  in 
a  bit.  He  hasn't  any  more  army  contracts,  you  know. 
(Sighing)  It  certainly  was  wonderful  while  it  lasted. 


82  JIM'S  BEAST 

MRS.  VAN  DYKE 

I  shouldn't  worry  about  it  if  I  were  you.  Why,  even 
this  beast  would  look  like  a  piece  of  bric-a-brac  in  that 
new  house  he  gave  you. 

MRS.  MORROW 

(The  hand  of  SARAH  mopping  in  the  aisle  is 
seen.    MRS.  MORROW  is  startled.) 
What's  that? 

MRS.  VAN  DYKE 
Oh,  it's  only  an  old  scrubwoman. 

MRS.  MORROW 

They  might  wait  till  the  museum  closed  before  they 
splash  about  spoiling  our  gowns. 

MRS.  VAN  DYKE 

Well,  if  we're  ever  going  to  see  that  ancient  jewelry 
before  we're  as  old  as  it  is,  I  suppose  we'd  better  try 
and  find  it. 

MRS.  MORROW 

But  I'll  have  to  tell  Jim  I  came  especially  to  see  his 
beast:  he'll  want  to  know  what  it  looks  like,  the  poor 
dear! 

(ELIZABETH  LIVINGSTON  enters.  She  is  a 
woman  of  such  an  indefinite  age  that  she  must  be 
past  her  early  thirties.  Handsome,  well-groomed 
and  yet  a  bit  hectic,  her  secret  is  that  she  is  d. 
born  intriguante  and  likes  to  see  men  feverish. 


JIM'S  BEAST  83 

She  sees  HOOD:  he  sees  her:  the  two  women 
catch  this  exchange  of  glances,  though  HOOD 
instantly  resumes  reading  and  BESS  goes  quickly 
to  the  case  opposite  not  to  betray  she  is  there 
to  meet  HOOD. 

The  two  women  exchange  significant  glances. 
HOOD  looks  up  and  catches  MRS.  MORROW  eye 
ing  him  through  her  lorgnette.  He  rises  in 
question.) 

MRS.  MORROW 

( To  cover  it) 

I  beg  pardon.     Do  you  happen  to  know  where  they 
keep  the  ancient  jewelry? 

HOOD 
(Politely) 
I  think  it's  to  the  right. 

MRS.  VAN  DYKE 
But  that's  what  the  other  man  said. 

HOOD 
Have  you  tried  the  long  hall? 

MRS.  MORROW 
But  which  hall? 

HOOD 

(Obviously  trying  to  get  rid  of  them) 
The  very  furthest  hall. 


84  JIM'S  BEAST 

MRS.  MORROW 

Oh  ...  (She  turns  to  MRS.  VAN  DYKE.)  The 
very  furthest  hall,  he  said.  (Aside  to  her  as  they  turn) 
I'm  afraid  we're  de  trop.  I'm  sure  it's  .  .  . 


MRS.  VAN  DYKE 

I  thought  so,  too;  and  with  a  different  tame  robin 
this  time.  (As  she  turns  and  looks  at  the  BRONTO- 
SAURUS.)  I'm  glad  I  won't  look  like  Jim's  beast 
when  I'm  dead. 

MRS.  MORROW 

Well,  dear,  we'll  never  be  found  in  a  museum  at 
any  rate. 

MRS.  VAN  DYKE 

(As  they  go  up) 
I  don't  know.     I'm  most  dead  already. 

(MRS.  MORROW  gives  a  look  at  BESS  through 
her  lorgnette.  They  go  out  obviously  gossiping 
about  her. 

HOOD   takes  a  step   to  see   they   have  gone. 
Then  he  turns  tensely.) 

HOOD 
Bess! 

BESS 
Oh,  Bob! 


JIM'S  BEAST  85 

HOOD 


Dearest ! 


BESS 

Be  careful.     Somebody  may  see  us.     I'm  sure  those 
women     . 

HOOD 

(With  extravagant  expression) 

I'd  like  the  whole  world  to  see  us.     I  can't  stand 
this  much  longer.     Bess,  I  want  you. 

BESS 
I  know.     Sh! 

(SARAH  comes  from  out  of  aide,  goes  out  of 
sight,  obviously  to  clean  another  aisle.  But 
she  has  seen  them  and  gives  a  knowing  smile 
as  though  such  rendezvous  were  not  unusual.) 

HOOD 
It  can't  go  on  like  this. 

BESS 
Aren't  you  satisfied  with  what  we've  already  had? 

HOOD 

(Unconsciously  playing  up  to  the  situation) 
I  want  all  or  nothing — the  you  all  the  world  has, 
too.     I     ... 

BESS 
Yes?    Say  it.     I  like  to  hear  you  say  it. 


86  JIM'S  BEAST 

HOOD 

I  want  you  to  be  my  wife.  (Intensely)  Bess! 
Bess!  Will  you? 

BESS 
Give  me  time  to  think. 

HOOD 

But  it  can't  go  on  like  this  .  .  .  having  me  meet 
you  in  strange  places  .  .  .  always  being  afraid. 
Bess,  you  love  me,  don't  you? 

BESS 
Oh,  Bob! 

HOOD 
You've  never  loved  anybody  before  as  you  love  me? 

BESS 
Oh,  no;  you're  so  fine  and  strong  and    .    .    . 

HOOD 
Then  why  are  you  afraid  ? 

BESS 
The  world  ...  my  world  .   .   .  your  world  .   .   . 

HOOD 
But  you  wouldn't  be  the  first  who    .    .    . 

BESS 
Don't  drive  me  to  the  wall! 


JIM'S  BEAST  87 

HOOD 

You  must  decide. 

BESS 

I'm  thinking  of  you.     I'm  older  than  you.     In  time, 
perhaps,  you   .    .    . 

HOOD 
Never. 

BESS 
How  you  say  it! 

HOOD 

I  love  you.     I've  never  loved  any  woman  before. 
I'll  never  love  any  woman  again. 

BESS 

My  dear  boy!     I  must  go  now.     I  just  wanted  to 
see  you,  to  hear  you  say  you  love  me. 

HOOD 
And  I  came  because  I  wanted  a  definite  answer. 

BESS 
Wait.     In  time.     Don't  drive  me  to  the  wall. 

HOOD 

(Heroically) 
I  tell  you  I'll  kill  myself  if   ... 


88  JIM'S  BEAST 

BESS 
Bob!     Do  you  care  as  much  as  that? 


HOOD 
Yes.     Nothing  else  matters. 

BESS 
But  your  career — your  position  ? 

HOOD 

You  are  more  than  all  that.  What  will  you  give  up 
for  me? 

BESS 

Sh!  Somebody's  coming.  (In  a  different  tone,  mis 
tress  of  herself.)  It  must  have  taken  a  good  many 
years  to  collect  these  specimens. 

(RAY  LIVINGSTON  has  come  in  on  this,  walking 
slowly  down  with  eyes  that  glitter  for  a  moment 
on  seeing  them. 

He  is  about  sixty.  The  tightly  drawn  skin 
on  his  face  clearly  reveals  the  bones  beneath. 
He  is  an  aristocratic,  calm,  collected  man:  the 
essence  of  deliberate  politeness.  When  he  comes 
to  them  he  acts  as  though  he  were  surprised.) 

LIVINGSTON 
Bess.    This  is  a  surprise. 


JIM'S  BEAST  89 

BESS 
Ray? 

LIVINGSTON 
Do  you  come  here  often  ? 

BESS 

I  was  just  strolling  through  to  look  at  some  ancient 
jewelry  when  I  happened  to  meet  Mr.  Hood. — This 
is  my  husband.  Mr.  Hood. 

(As  LIVINGSTON  crosses  slowly  and  shakes  his 
hand  with  cold  studied  courtesy,  HOOD  gives 
him  a  sickly  smile,  ill  at  ease  in  an  unaccus 
tomed  situation.) 

LIVINGSTON 

I'm  charmed  to  meet  you.  I've  heard  Mrs.  Liv 
ingston  speak  of  you.  Let  me  see,  where  was  it? 

BESS 

(Casually,  mistress  of  herself) 

Perhaps  it  was  after  I  first  met  him  at  Judge 
Wilton's.  Mr.  Hood  is  in  the  Legislature,  you  know. 

LIVINGSTON 

To  be  sure.  I  remember  your  photograph  in  all  the 
newspapers.  (Half  playfully)  But  you're  rather  a 
young  man  for  such  a  conspicuous  and  responsible  office. 

HOOD 

(Trying  to  be  at  ease) 
One  soon  grows  older  up  there. 


9o  JIM'S  BEAST 

LIVINGSTON 

(Pleasantly) 

I  hope  that  means  wiser;  for  wisdom,  I'm  told,  is 
only  a  matter  of  perspective,  and  its  secret  is  rinding 
the  relative  importance  of  things.  (With  a  smile.) 
But,  of  course,  everything  must  seem  vitally  important 
at  the  beginning.  Just  as  each  moment  of  life  was 
once  the  most  important  thing  to  these  animals.  (Be 
fore  HOOD  can  answer.)  Are  you  interested  in  fossils? 

HOOD 
(Eyes  him) 

I'm  trying  to  understand  their  meaning  and  signifi 
cance. 

LIVINGSTON 

Do  you  find  it  difficult  ?  I  see  you  have  a  catalogue. 
Do  you  come  here  to  study  them? 

BESS 

(Trying  with  her  skill  to  relieve  the  situation) 
Mr.  Hood  was  just  telling  me  he  was  planning  to 

introduce  a  bill  in  the  Legislature  to — to  extend  the 

wings. 

LIVINGSTON 
To  extend  the  wings  ?    What  of  ? 

BESS 
Of  the  Museum,  of  course. 


JIM'S  BEAST  91 

LIVINGSTON 
Indeed? 

HOOD 

(Lying  in  spite  of  himself) 
Yes. 

BESS 

(With  a  reassuring  smile) 
He  thinks  it's  a  bit  cramped  here. 

LIVINGSTON 

I  quite  approve.  Space  is  what  is  needed.  But  you'll 
find  it  difficult  to  get  money  from  the  Legislature  for 
such  purposes.  I've  tried  myself. 

HOOD 
Oh,  are  you  interested  in  museums? 

LIVINGSTON 

Didn't  you  tell  him,  Bess,  about  the  museum  I  had 
planned  ? 

BESS 

(Beginning  to  detect  his  intention) 
No;  it  slipped  my  mind. 

LIVINGSTON 

(Playfully  reproving  her) 
And  I  had  such  a  personal  interest  in  it,  too. 


92  JIM'S  BEAST 

HOOD 
Was  it  a  museum  for  fossils? 


LIVINGSTON 

It  was  to  prevent  people  from  becoming  fossils  be 
fore  their  time.  It  was  a  museum  of  safety  appliances. 

HOOD 
Industrial  ? 

LIVINGSTON 

No:  domestic.  From  a  very  long  life,  I'd  observed 
that  in  the  world  and  in  the  home,  most  everybody, 
through  lack  of  a  little  precaution,  makes  a  fool  of 
himself  or  herself  once  or  twice  in  a  life. 

BESS 

(Suavely) 

I  thought  the  average  was  higher;  didn't  you,  Mr. 
Hood? 

LIVINGSTON 

Perhaps  the  nasty  messy  mangling  is.  I'm  not  sure 
of  the  mortalities.  You  see,  Mr.  Hood — if  you  are 
interested  ? 

HOOD 

(Wit ha  start) 
Very. 

LIVINGSTON 

What  I  mean  is  that  people  cut  off  a  useful  hand 
or  limb — metaphorically,  of  course — because  they  go 


JIM'S  BEAST  93 

a  little  too  near  the  machinery :  the  machinery  of  what 
we  call  the  hard  facts  of  life. 


HOOD 
And  what  was  your  exhibit  intended  for? 

LIVINGSTON 
(Pointedly} 

To  have  them  read  the  danger  signs  first.  It  was 
my  plan  to  indicate  how  signs  should  be  put  up  over 
certain  places,  like  stores  and  homes  and  .  .  . 

BESS 
(Calmly) 

How  interesting.  What  sort  of  signs  were  they  to 
be,  dear? 


HOOD 

"  Don't  Handle,"  "  Watch  Your  Step."  You  know 
the  sort.  You  see,  I  have  a  theory  that  if  these  signs 
were  placed  about  in  enough  places  people  would  soon 
grow  accustomed  to  carrying  them  in  their  mind's 
eye,  as  it  were.  (Pointedly)  Do  you  get  my  mean 
ing? 

BESS 

But,  dear;  there  are  so  many  signs  now.  Look  at 
these  about  here  for  instance.  I'm  sure  people  would 
never  get  anything  out  of  these  by  carrying  them  about 
in  their  heads. 


94  JIM'S  BEAST 

LIVINGSTON 

It's  merely  a  matter  of  how  much  intelligence  and 
imagination  you  bring  to  signs — otherwise  they  are 
only  words. 

(As  LIVINGSTON  crosses  to  read  sign  under  the 
BRONTOSAURUS,   HOOD  makes  a  movement  as 
though  to  speak,  but  BESS,  who  has  sat  on  the 
bench,  stops  him  with  an  imploring  gesture.) 
Um — highly    suggestive,    this.      (Reading)      "  Great 
Amphibious    Dinosaur    Brontosaurus    .    .    .    Jurassic 
Period    .    .    .     Donated    by   James    Morrow.    .    »    * 
The      Brontosaurus     lived      several     million      years 
ago.    ..."    You  see  ( To  them )  James  Morrow  and 
the  animal  have  clasped  hands  over  the  centuries.    Um. 
From  this  sign,  can't  you  picture  the  love  and  devo 
tion  to  science  that  prompted  such  a  gift  ? 

HOOD 

(Now  smiling  for  the  first  time) 
As  it  happens  he  didn't  even  know  what  his  money 
was  for.     While   I  was  waiting  here   I  heard   Mrs. 
Morrow  say    ...     (He  stops  short  as  LIVINGSTON 
gives  him  a  sharp  look.) 

BESS 

(Quickly) 
You  see,  dear,  you  were  mistaken  in  that  sign. 

LIVINGSTON 
(Casually) 

Perhaps.  Curious  though  how  much  information 
a  man  picks  up  while  he  waits  about.  (He  crosses  over 


JIM'S  BEAST  95 

to  the  case  opposite.)     I  wonder  what  this  one  will 

reveal. 

(HoOD  sees  he  has  been  caught  in  a  slip.  It 
spurs  him  into  a  mood  of  retaliation.  He  over 
comes  a  momentary  hesitation  and  then  shows 
he  resolves  to  tell  LIVINGSTON  everything.) 

HOOD 

(With  hoarse  nervous  intensity) 
Mr.   Livingston ! 

BESS 

(Under  her  breath  to  him) 
Bob! 

LIVINGSTON 
(Not  turning) 
Yes? 

(For  a  second  HOOD  is  about  to  speak,  but  he 
is  halted  by  BESS'S  look  and  voices,  as  the  PRO 
FESSOR,  followed  by  LARRY  ANDERSON,  enters. 

LARRY  is  a  fine  strapping  doughboy  in  his 
uniform,  on  which  are  two  gold  service  stripes 
and  several  decorations  for  bravery.  His  hand 
is  bandaged.  They  come  down. 

As  LIVINGSTON  gives  no  indication  of  leaving, 
BESS  still  sits  there  while  HOOD  keeps  his  eyes 
on  her  husband's  back.  His  silence  holds  them 
there.) 


96  JIM'S  BEAST 

PROFESSOR 
But  I  was  expecting  at  least  two  hundred. 


LARRY 
They  got  lost  on  the  way. 

PROFESSOR 
Lost? 

LARRY 

Yes.  I  left  them  at  the  Follies.  But  I'd  heard  my 
uncle  speak  of  this  place. 

PROFESSOR 
(Brightens) 
Is  your  uncle  interested  in  fossils? 

LARRY 

Yes.  He's  a  queer  bug.  He  told  me  to  be  sure  and 
not  miss  the  Chamber  of  Horrors.  You  know,  where 
all  the  Kings  and  Queens  and  statesmen  are  embalmed 
in  wax? 

PROFESSOR 

But,  my  dear  friend,  they  tore  down  the  Eden  Musee 
several  years  ago. 

LARRY 

They  did?  Why  didn't  they  wait  till  I  got  back? 
Haven't  you  any  Chamber  of  Horrors  here? 


JIM'S  BEAST  97 

PROFESSOR 
No;  this  is  the  Paleontological  section. 

LARRY 

(Looking  about) 

Well,  now  that  I'm  here  maybe  this  will  do  as  well. 
(LIVINGSTON  now  turns,  leaning  against  the 
case,  much  interested  in  the  two  men.  As  he 
shows  no  intention  of  moving,  BESS  sits  there, 
twisting  her  handkerchief  nervously  in  her 
hand.  HOOD  is  embarrassed  and  undecided.) 
Trot  'em  out,  so  I  can  tell  uncle  I've  seen  'em. 

PROFESSOR 

(Pointing  to  BRONTOSAURUS) 
This  is  a  major  Dinosaur. 

LARRY 

Major  what? 

PROFESSOR 
The  more  popular  name  is  the  Brontosaurus. 

LARRY 

Is  that  so?     (Looking  at  it.)     Some  bird! 

PROFESSOR 

It's  a  reptile:  its  name  means  Thunder  Lizard  be 
cause  its  mighty  tread  shook  the  earth. 

LARRY 

Where  did  it  grow? 


98  JIM'S  BEAST 

PROFESSOR 

From  other  bones  we  have  found  I  should  say  it 
roamed  all  over  the  world.  This  specimen  was  dug 
up  in  Wyoming. 

LARRY 

What  was  it  doing  in  Wyoming? 

PROFESSOR 

(On  his  dignity) 

It  was  possibly  overtaken  there  by  an  earthquake. 

LARRY 
Must  have  been  some  earthquake. 

PROFESSOR 

Since  it  was  thus  buried  in  silica  away  from  the 
decomposing  air  and  moisture,  it  was  preserved  for 
centuries — till  we  happened  to  discover  it  with  a  pick. 

LARRY 

You  don't  say  so!  (He  looks  at  it  a  bit  awed.) 
When  we  were  digging  trenches  in  No  Man's  Land 
we  used  to  find  .  .  . 

PROFESSOR 

What? 

LARRY 

Not  that  sort  of  bones. 


JIM'S  BEAST  99 

PROFESSOR 

This  was  in  an  excellent  state  of  preservation.  It 
is  sixty  feet  long  and  must  have  weighed  when  alive 
forty  tons.  It  took  seven  years  to  dig  it  out  and  mount 
it.  We  had  to  be  very  careful  not  to  break  its  marvel 
ous  tail.  If  you'll  walk  to  the  other  end  you'll  get  an 
idea  of  its  length.  We  found  ninety-seven  perfect 
vertebrae. 

LARRY 

Ninety-seven?    You  don't  say  so? 


PROFESSOR 
You  can  count  them  and  see. 

LARRY 

Ninety-seven  what  you  call  'ems!  Think  of  that. 
(As  he  goes  up.)  And  you  say  it  came  from  Wyo 
ming? 

PROFESSOR 
Yes. 

LARRY 

(Proudly) 
That's  my  state,  too. 

(LARRY  wanders  off  out  of  sight  looking  at  the 
fossil.  As  the  PROFESSOR  starts  to  follow, 
LIVINGSTON,  who  has  been  watching  his  wife 
and  HOOD,  stops  him.) 


ioo  JIM'S  BEAST 

LIVINGSTON 

I  beg  your  pardon.  I  hope  you  won't  mind  our 
being  interested  in  what  you  were  saying ;  but  we  were 
wondering  about  the  animal  ourselves. 

(HoOD  looks  at  BESS  quickly  not  knowing  what 
LIVINGSTON  is  driving  at.) 

PROFESSOR 
(Brightening) 

Indeed?  I'm  afraid  our  young  friend  is  a  bit  ir 
reverent. 

LIVINGSTON 
May  I  ask  what  is  known  of  its  domestic  habits? 

PROFESSOR 

It  was  hardly  a  domestic  animal.  Its  family  life 
probably  extended  only  during  the  infancy  of  its  young. 

LIVINGSTON 
Was  this  a  female,  by  chance? 

PROFESSOR 
Yes:  the  large  pelvic  development    .    .    . 

LIVINGSTON 
This  one  undoubtedly  had  young,  too? 

PROFESSOR 

Of  course.  But  we  have  never  found  any  of  its 
eggs.  It  was  a  reptile,  you  know. 


JIM'S  BEAGI  roi 

LIVINGSTON 

But    while    they    were    dependent    it    undoubtedly 
fought  to  protect  its  young — like  other  animals? 

PROFESSOR 

With  very  few  exceptions  all  the  female  animals  at 
least  do  that;  even  those  of  low  intelligence. 

LIVINGSTON 

This  one  couldn't  by  any  chance  have  been  wooed 
away  from  that  obligation  by  romantic  notions? 

PROFESSOR 
(Suspiciously) 
This — romantic  ? 

LIVINGSTON 
But  you  said  it  roamed  in  search  of  adventure? 

PROFESSOR 

(A  bit  on  his  dignity} 

Romance  lies  in  the  field  of  the  emotions:  I  am  a 
scientist. 

LIVINGSTON 

What  I  mean  is:  was  she  faithful  to  one  or  promis 
cuous  ? 

PROFESSOR 
(Embarrassed) 
Undoubtedly  promiscuous. 


IQ^  'JIM'S  BEAST 

LIVINGSTON 

Of  course. — You  see,  Bess,  the  lady  existed  before 
man  made  his  conventions. 


PROFESSOR 
Yes.    She  could  follow  all  her  natural  instincts. 

LIVINGSTON 
Which  were? 

PROFESSOR 

Food  and  fighting.  You  will  observe  her  large 
maw  and  small  brain.  Her  main  weapon  of  defense 
was  her  long  powerfully  muscled  tail.  From  the  teeth, 
we  deduce  she  was  mainly  herbivorous. 

LIVINGSTON 
What  did  she  feed  on? 

PROFESSOR 
Everything  she  could  pick  up. 

LIVINGSTON 

(Significantly) 

Think  of  that,  Hood — "  everything  she  could  pick 
up." 

PROFESSOR 
Young  weeds,  tender  grass  and  the  like. 


JIM'S  BEAST  103 

LIVINGSTON 

Young  weeds — ah,  yes,  of  course.  Yet  in  spite  of  her 
diet,  there  is  something  quite  impressive  about  dead 
things,  isn't  there? 

PROFESSOR 
(Eyeing  it) 
They  have  a  dynamic  power. 

LIVINGSTON 

Exactly.  You  see,  Mr.  Hood,  a  dead  tree,  that  has 
in  its  time  given  shelter  and  substance,  fights  to  be 
left  standing.  It  resists  the  alien  ax.  Its  roots  go  as 
deep  as  when  they  flowed  with  sap.  They  also  fight 
to  prevent  themselves  from  being  torn  up.  They  don't 
like  to  be  disturbed — any  more  than  this  animal  did 
in  its  cold  clayey  comfort.  (To  PROFESSOR)  You  say 
it  took  seven  years? 

PROFESSOR 
(Not  understanding) 

Yes.  We  were  afraid  of  hurting  it  if  we  were 
careless. 

LIVINGSTON 

You  were  right  to  be  careful:  one  shouldn't  hurt  the 
dead.  What  is  its  scientific  significance? 

PROFESSOR 

Nothing  but  a  further  proof  of  the  slow  processes 
of  evolution. 


104  JIM'S  BEAST 

LIVINGSTON 
(With  a  smile) 

I  am  a  utilitarian.  I  see  another  significance.  Pos 
sibly  she  was  dug  up,  a  thousand  centuries  after  she 
died,  just  to  give  you  an  occupation. 

PROFESSOR 
I  can't  accept  that  as  a  working  hypothesis. 

LIVINGSTON 

Just  think,  Hood.  Several  million  years  dead! 
There  it  stands  for  man  to  look  upon!  Possibly  that 
was  why  it  existed,  after  all:  for  us  three  to  look 
upon.  (He  glances  pointedly  at  them.)  Mr.  Hood 
is  thinking  of  introducing  a  bill  in  the  Legislature  to 
increase  the  wings  of  the  Museum. 

PROFESSOR 

That's  very  kind  of  him.  We  have  many  boxes  still 
unpacked  in  the  cellar  for  lack  of  room.  But,  un 
fortunately,  this  museum  is  under  the  control  of  the 
city,  not  the  state. 

LIVINGSTON 
(Smiling  at  HOOD) 
Indeed? 

BESS 

(Rising  impatiently) 
It's  getting  late. 


JIM'S  BEAST  105 

LARRY 

(Re-entering) 
I  only  counted  sixty-three. 

PROFESSOR 
(Emphatically) 
But  there  are  ninety-seven. 

LARRY 

All  right.     I  won't  argue  it. 

PROFESSOR 

If  you'll  come  with  me,  I'll  show  you  the  Tyran- 
nosaurus.  They  wrere  carnivorous  and  the  greatest 
fighters  of  them  all. 

LARRY 

Say,  this  is  a  fine  place  to  be  showing  a  fellow  who's 
just  back  from  France. 

BESS 

(Sweetly) 

Young  man,  I'd  like  to  shake  your  hand.  I  see  you 
have  all  sorts  of  lovely  decorations.  May  I  ask  how 
you  got  them? 

LARRY 

(Embarrassed) 

Oh,  I  was  careless  and  they  pinned  a  rose  on  me  by 
mistake. 


io6  JIM'S  BEAST 

BESS 
You  must  be  very  proud  of  them? 

LARRY 

Sure    I    am.      (Looking    at    the    BRONTOSAURUS.) 
But  that  lizard  kinder  takes  the  pride  out  of  a  fellow. 

BESS 

But  /  admire  bravery — whenever  I  see  it.     I'd  like 
to  hear  about  how  you  really  got  those  decorations. 

LARRY 

Would  you? 

(The  gong  in  the  distance  rings.) 

PROFESSOR 
(In  back) 

If  you  want  to  see  the  Tyrannosaurus  before  we 
close    .    .    . 

LARRY 

Oh,  all  right.  (To  others)  Gee,  I'll  be  glad  to  get 
out  among  the  live  ones. 

BESS 

(Smiling  at  him) 
So  will  I. 

LIVINGSTON 

(Coldly) 
You  should  have  gone  to  the  Follies,  young  man. 


JIM'S  BEAST  107 

LARRY 

Oh,  I  might  have  sprained  an  ankle  going  to  my 
seat. 

(He  goes  out  after  the  PROFESSOR  as  BESS 
looks  after  him.  SARAH  comes  in  back  and 
then  goes  off.  The  rear  of  room  darkens,  indi 
cating  she  has  pulled  the  curtain  up.  LIVING 
STON  glances  at  HOOD  who  is  gazing  at  BESS 
with  a  strange  enlightenment.) 

LIVINGSTON 

I  think  you're  right,  Bess :  we'd  better  be  going.  We 
might  stop  and  take  the  children  for  a  spin  before 
it's  dark. 

BESS 
Yes. 

LIVINGSTON 
(To  HOOD) 
Are  you  going  our  way? 

HOOD 
No. 

BESS 

You're  sure  we  can't  drop  you  somewhere? 

HOOD 

No.    Thank  you. 


io8  JIM'S  BEAST 

LIVINGSTON 

I'm  delighted  to  have  met  you,  Mr.  Hood.  (Shak 
ing  hands.)  I  shall  follow  your  work  in  the  Legisla 
ture  with  great  interest. 

HOOD 

Perhaps  I  may  be  able  to  help  you  with  your 
museum. 

LIVINGSTON 

Just  talking  to  you  has  encouraged  me  greatly. 
Good-bye.  There  is  a  big  political  future  waiting  a 
young  man  these  days — if  he  keeps  his  head. 

BESS 

(Shaking  his  hand) 
Fm  sure  my  husband  is  right. 

HOOD 

(Looking  at  her) 
So  am  I.    Quite  sure. 

(She  turns  away,  as  she  sees  what  his  tone  of 
finality  implies,  and  looks  up  at  the  BRONTO- 
SAURUS  with  a  start.) 

LIVINGSTON 
What  is  it,  dear? 

BESS 
Nothing.     Only  it  seems  to  be  smiling  at  us. 


JIM'S  BEAST  109 

LIVINGSTON 
All  skulls  grin :  it's  the  eternal  laughter  of  the  dead. 

BESS 

Come.  (As  she  starts.)  Dear,  don't  you  think  it 
might  be  a  good  idea  to  rescue  that  fine  strong  good- 
looking  young  soldier?  He  must  be  so  lonely  and  we 
might  take  him  for  a  drive. 

LIVINGSTON 

(A  bit  wearily  at  what  he  sees  ahead) 
Oh,  yes;  if  you  wish.     But  I'm  sure  he  should  have 
gone  to  the  Follies. 

(He  offers  her  his  arm — she  takes  it.  HOOD 
watches  them  as  they  walk  out  without  turn 
ing  back.  Pie  stands  there  a  moment,  with  a 
cynical  smile  creeping  over  his  lips.  He  throws 
the  catalogue  on  the  seat.  Then  he  goes  to  the 
sign  before  the  BRONTOSAURUS.) 

HOOD 

(Reading  and  thinking) 

"  Mainly  Herbivorous."  "  Anything  she  can  pick 
up."  "Several  million  years"  .  .  . 

(As  he  gazes  there,  SARAH  enters  and  goes 
out  to  pull  up  the  other  curtain.  She 
apparently  does  so  for  some  red  rays  slowly 
gather  about  the  fossil.  The  room  is  darker. 
She  re-enters  and  stands  there  looking  at  him. 
HOOD  gives  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  determination  : 
he  puts  on  his  hat,  and,  with  hands  in  his 
pockets,  goes  off  whistling. 


no  JIM'S  BEAST 

SARAH  stands  there  as  the  room  darkens. 
Then  she  goes  over  near  the  seat  and  begins 
to  mop.) 

SARAH 
Moppin'  and  scrubbin'    .    .    .    moppin'    .    .    . 

(She  pauses  and  gives  a  glance  at  the  BRONTO- 
SAURUS  on  whose  skull  are  now  centered  the 
rays  of  the  setting  sun.) 

Holy  Mother  of  Saints!     What  are  you  grinnin'  at, 

ye  dirty  heathen? 

(She  lifts  her  arm  again  in  revolt  as  though  to 
throw  the  mop  at  it.  Then  ihe  puts  it  down 
with  a  sense  of  futility.  She  picks  up  her 
things  and  goes  off  slowly. 

The  place  is  now  dark  save  for  the  faint  light 
on  the  skull;  and  even  that  fades  after  a  little 
while. ) 


[CURTAIN] 


TIDES 


THE  PEOPLE 

WILLIAM  WHITE,  a  famous  Internationalist. 
HILDA,  his  wife. 
WALLACE,  their  son. 


SCENE 
At  the  Whites;  spring,   1917. 


TIDES* 

jj  SIMPLY  furnished  study.  The  walls  are 
y^j  lined  with  bookshelves,  indicating,  by  their 
-*-  -*~  improvised  quality,  that  they  have  been  in 
creased  as  occasion  demanded.  On  these  are  stacked, 
in  addition  to  the  books  themselves,  many  files  of  papers, 
magazines  and  "  reports."  The  large  work-table,  upon 
which  rests  a  double  student  lamp  and  a  telephone,  is 
conspicuous.  A  leather  couch  with  pillows  is  opposite, 
pointing  towards  a  doorway  which  leads  into  the  living- 
room.  There  is  also  a  doorway  in  back,  which  ap-> 
parently  opens  on  the  hallway  beyond.  The  room  is 
comfortable  in  spite  of  its  general  disorder:  it  is  essen 
tially  the  work-shop  of  a  busy  man  of  public  affairs. 
The  strong  sunlight  of  a  spring  day  comes  in  through 
the  window,  flooding  the  table. 

WILLIAM  WHITE  is  standing  by  the  window,  smok 
ing  a  pipe.  He  is  about  fifty,  of  striking  appearance: 
the  visual  incarnation  of  the  popular  conception  of  a 
leader  of  men.  There  is  authority  and  strength  in  the 
lines  of  his  face;  his  whole  personality  is  commanding; 
his  voice-  has  all  the  modulations  of  a  well-trained 
orator;  his  gestures  are  sweeping — for,  even  in  private 
conversation,  he  is  habitually  conscious  of  an  audience. 

*  Copyright  by  George  Middleton.     See  back  of  title  page. 


ii4  TIDES 

Otherwise,  he  is  simple  and  engaging,  with  some  indi 
cation  of  his  humble  origin. 

On  the  sofa  opposite,  with  a  letter  in  her  hand, 
HILDA  WHITE,  his  wife,  is  seated.  She  is  somewhat 
younger  in  fact,  though  in  appearance  she  is  as  one  who 
has  been  worn  a  bit  by  the  struggle  of  many  years.  Her 
manner  contrasts  with  her  husband's:  her  inheritance  of 
delicate  refinement  is  ever  present  in  her  soft  voice  and 
gentle  gesture.  Yet  she,  too,  suggests  strength — the 
sort  which  will  endure  all  for  a  fixed  intention. 

It  is  obvious  throughout  that  she  and  her  husband 
have  been  happy  comrades  in  their  life  together  and  that 
a  deep  fundamental  bond  has  united  them  in  spite  of 
the  different  social  spheres  from  which  each  has  sprung. 

WHITE 

(Seeing  she  has  paused) 
Go  on,  "dear ;  go  on.    Let's  hear  all  of  it. 

HILDA 

Oh,  what's  the  use,  Will?  You  know  how  dif 
ferently  he  feels  about  the  war. 

WHITE 

(With  quiet  sarcasm) 

But  it's  been  so  many  years  since  your  respectable 
brother  has  honored  me  even  with  the  slightest  allu 
sion  .  .  . 

HILDA 

If  you  care  for  what  he  says — (Continuing  to  read 
the  letter) — "  Remember,  Hilda,  you  are  an  American. 


TIDES  115 

I  don't  suppose  your  husband  considers  that  an  honor ; 
but  I  do." 


WHITE 
(Interrupting) 

And  what  kind  of  an  American  has  he  been  in  times 
of  peace?  He's  wrung  forty  per  cent  profit  out  of  his 
factory  and  fought  every  effort  of  the  workers  to 
organize.  Ah,  these  smug  hypocrites! 

HILDA 
(Reading) 

"  His  violent  opposition  to  America  going  in  has  been 
disgrace  enough " 

WHITE 
But  his  war  profits  were  all  right.    Oh,  yes. 

HILDA 

Let  me  finish,  dear,  since  you  want  it.  (Reading) 
" — been  disgrace  enough.  But  now  that  we're  in,  I'm 
writing  in  the  faint  hope,  if  you  are  not  too  much  under 
his  influence,  that  you  will  persuade  him  to  keep  his 
mouth  shut.  This  country  will  tolerate  no  difference 
of  opinion  now.  You  radicals  had  better  get  on  board 
the  band  wagon.  It's  prison  or  acceptance."  (She 
stops  reading.)  He's  right,  dear.  There  will  be 
nothing  more  intolerant  than  a  so-called  democracy  at 
war. 


u6  TIDES 

WHITE 

By  God !  It's  superb !  Silence  for  twenty  years  and 
now  he  writes  his  poor  misguided  sister  for  fear  she 
will  be  further  disgraced  by  her  radical  husband. 

HILDA 
We  mustn't  descend  to  his  bitterness. 

WHITE 

No:  I  suppose  I  should  resuscitate  the  forgotten 
doctrine  of  forgiving  my  enemies. 

HILDA 

He's  not  your  enemy;  he  merely  looks  at  it  all  dif 
ferently. 

WHITE 

I  was  thinking  of  his  calm  contempt  for  me  these 
twenty  years — ever  since  you  married  me — "  out  of 
your  class,"  as  he  called  it. 

HILDA 

Oh,  hush,  Will.  I've  been  so  happy  with  you  I 
can  bear  him  no  ill  will.  Besides,  doesn't  his  attitude 
seem  natural?  You  mustn't  forget  that  no  man  in  this 
country  has  fought  his  class  more  than  you.  That 
hurts — especially  coming  from  an  acquired  relative. 

WHITE  * 

Yes;  that  aggravates  the  offense.  And  I'll  tell  you 
something  you  may  not  know:  (Bitterly)  Whenever 


TIDES  117 

I've  spoken  against  privilege  and  wealth  it's  been  his 
pudgy,  comfortable  face  I've  shaken  my  fist  at.  He's 
been  so  damned  comfortable  all  his  life. 

HILDA 

(She  looks  at  him  in  surprise) 

Why,  Will,  you  surely  don't  envy  him  his  comfort, 
do  you  ?  I  can't  make  you  out.  What's  come  over  you 
these  last  weeks?  You've  always  been  above  such 
personal  bitterness;  even  when  you  were  most  con 
demned  and  ridiculed.  If  it  were  anybody  but  you 
I'd  think  you  had  done  something  you  were  ashamed  of. 

WHITE 
What  do  you  mean? 

HILDA 

Haven't  you  sometimes  noticed  that  is  what  bitter 
ness  to  another  means:  a  failure  within  oneself?  (He 
goes  over  to  chair  and  sits  without  answering.)  I  can 
think  of  you  beaten  by  outside  things — that  sort  of 
failure  we  all  meet;  but  somehow  I  can  never  think 
of  you  failing  yourself.  You've  been  so  brave  and  self- 
reliant:  you've  fought  so  hard  for  the  truth. 

WHITE 

( Tapping  letter) 
But  he  thinks  he  knows  the  truth,  too. 

HILDA 
He's  also  an  intense  nature. 


ii8  TIDES 

WHITE 

(Thoughtfully  after  a  pause) 
Yet  there  is  some  truth  in  what  he  says. 

HILDA 
(Smiling) 
But  you  didn't  like  it — coming  from  him? 

WHITE 

It  will  be  different  with  you  and  me  now  that 
America's  gone  in. 

HILDA 

Yes.     It  will  be  harder  for  us  here;  for  hate  is 
always  furthest  from  the  trenches.    But  you  and  I  are 
not  the  sort  who  would  compromise  to  escape  the  perse 
cution  which  is  the  resource  of  the  non-combatant. 
(The  phone  rings:  he  looks  at  his  watch.) 

WHITE 
That's  for  me. 

HILDA 

Let  me.  (She  goes.)  It  may  be  Wallace.  (At 
phone.)  Yes:  this  is  116  Chelsea.  Long  Distance? 
(He  starts  as  she  says  to  him)  It  must  be  our 
boy.  (At  phone.)  Who?  Oh— Mr.  William  White ? 
Yes:  he'll  be  here.  (She  hangs  up  receiver.)  She'll 
ring  when  she  gets  the  connection  through. 

WHITE 

(Turning  away) 
It  takes  so  long  these  days. 


TIDES  119 

HILDA 
Funny  he  didn't  ask  for  me. 

WHITE 
What  made  you  think  it  was  Wallace? 

HILDA 

I  took  it  for  granted.  He  must  be  having  a  hard 
time  at  college  with  all  the  boys  full  of  war  fever. 

WHITE 
And  a  father  with  my  record. 

HILDA 

He  should  be  proud  of  the  example.  He  has  more 
than  other  boys  to  cling  to  these  days  when  everybody 
is  losing  his  head  as  the  band  plays  and  the  flag  is 
waved.  He  won't  be  carried  away  by  it.  He'll  re 
member  all  wre  taught  him.  Ah,  Will,  when  I  think 
we  now  have  conscription — as  they  have  in  Germany 
— I  thank  God  every  night  our  boy  is  too  young  for  the 
draft. 

WHITE 
But  when  his  time  comes  what  will  he  do? 

HILDA 
(Calmly) 
He  will  do  it  with  courage. 

WHITE 

(Referring  to  her  brother's  letter) 
Either  prison  or  acceptance! 


120  TIDES 

HILDA 

I  would  rather  have  my  son  in  prison  than  have  him 
do  what  he  felt  was  wrong.  Wouldn't  you? 

WHITE 

(Evasively) 
We  won't  have  to  face  that  problem  for  two  years. 

HILDA 

And  when  it  comes — if  he  falters — I'll  give  him 
these  notes  of  that  wonderful  speech  you  made  at  the 
International  Conference  in  1910.  (Picking  it  up.) 
I  was  looking  through  it  only  this  morning. 

WHITE 
( Troubled) 
Oh,  that  speech. 

HILDA 

(Glancing  through  it  with  enthusiasm) 
"  All  wars  are  imperialistic  in  origin.     Do  away 
with  overseas  investments,  trade  routes,  private  control 
of  ammunition  factories,  secret  diplomacy    ..." 

WHITE 
Don't  you  see  that's  all  dead  wood? 

HILDA 

(Not  heeding  him) 

This  part  gave  me  new  strength  when  I  thought 
of  Wallace.  (Reading  with  eloquence.)  "  War  will 


TIDES  121 

stop  when  young  men  put  Internationalism  above  Na 
tionality,  the  law  of  God  above  the  dictates  of  states 
men,  the  law  of  love  above  the  law  of  hate,  the  law  of 
self-sacrifice  above  the  law  of  profit.  There  must  be 
no  boundaries  in  man's  thought.  Let  the  young  men 
of  the  world  once  throw  down  their  arms,  let  them 
once  refuse  to  point  their  guns  at  human  hearts,  and 
all  the  boundaries  of  the  world  will  melt  away  and 
peace  will  find  a  resting-place  in  the  hearts  of  men !  " 

WHITE 

( Taking  it  from  her) 

And  I  made  you  believe  it!  What  silly  prophets 
we  radicals  were.  (He  tears  it  up.)  Mere  scraps  of 
paper,  dear ;  scraps  of  paper,  now. 

HILDA 
But  it  was  the  truth ;  it  still  is  the  truth. 

WHITE 

Hilda,  there's  something  I  want  to  talk  over  very 
very  seriously  with  you.  I've  been  putting  it  off. 

HILDA 

Yes,  dear?  (The  outer  door  is  heard  to  bang.) 
Listen:  wasn't  that  the  front  door? 

WHITE 
Perhaps  it's  the  maid? 

HILDA 

(A  bit  nervously) 
No:  she's  upstairs.    No  one  rang.    Please  see. 


122  TIDES 

WHITE 
(Smiling) 

Now  don't  worry!     It  can't  possibly  be  the  Secret 
Service. 

HILDA 

One  never  knows  in  war  times  what  to  expect.     I 
sometimes  feel  I  am  in  a  foreign  country. 

(WHITE  goes  slowly  to  the  door  in  back  and 
opens  it.  WALLACE,  their  son,  with  valise  in 
hand,  is  standing  there,  as  though  he  had  hesi 
tated  to  enter. 

He  is  a  fine  clean-cut  young  fellow,  with  his 
father's  physical  endowment  and  his  mother's 
spiritual  intensity.  The  essential  note  he  strikes 
is  that  of  honesty.  It  is  apparent  he  is  under 
the  pressure  of  a  momentous  decision  which  has 
brought  him  unexpectedly  home  from  college.) 

WHITE 
Wallace! 

WALLACE 
(Shaking  hands) 
Hello!  Dad. 

HILDA 
Wallace!     My  boy! 

(WALLACE  drops  valise  and  goes  to  his  mother's 
arms.) 


TIDES  123 

WALLACE 
(With  deep  Reeling} 
Mother! 

WHITE 

(After  a  pause] 

Well,  boy ;  this  is  unexpected.    We  were  just  talking 
of  you. 

WALLACE 
Were  you? 

HILDA 
I'm  so  glad  to  see  you,  so  glad. 

WALLACE 
Yes    .    .    yes    .    .    but    .    .    . 

WHITE 
There's  nothing  the  matter? 

HILDA 
You've  had  trouble  at  college? 

WALLACE 

Not  exactly.     But  I  couldn't  stand  it  there.     I've 
left — for  good. 

WHITE 
I  was  sure  that  would  happen. 


124  TIDES 

HILDA 
Tell  us.    You  know  we'll  understand. 


WALLACE 

Dad,  if  you  don't  mind,  I'd  like  to  talk  it  over  with 
mother  first. 

WHITE 

Of  course,  old  fellow,  that's  right.  She'll  stand  by 
you  just  as  she's  always  stood  by  me — all  these  years. 
(He  kisses  her.)  I  .  .  I  .  .  . 

(He  smooths  her  hair  gently,  looking  into  her 
eyes  as  she  smiles  up  at  him.) 

We  mustn't  let  this  war  hurt  all  we've  had  together 
— you  and  I 

HILDA 

(Smiling  and  turning  towards  her  son) 
And  Wallace. 

WHITE 

And  Wallace.  Yes.  (WALLACE  looks  away  guilt 
ily.  )  Let  me  know  when  the  phone  comes. 

(He  goes  out  hastily.  She  closes  the  door 
after  him  and  then  comes  to  WALLACE,  who 
has  sat  down,  indicating  he  is  troubled.) 

HILDA 
They  made  it  hard  for  you  at  college? 

WALLACE 
I  don't  know  how  to  tell  you. 


TIDES  125 

HILDA 

I  understand.  The  flag  waving,  the  patriotic 
speeches,  the  billboards  advertising  the  glory  of  war, 
the  call  of  adventure  offered  to  youth,  the  pressure 
of  your  friends — all  made  it  hard  for  you  to  be  called 
a  slacker. 

WALLACE 

No,  mother.  I  wasn't  afraid  of  what  they  could 
call  me.  That  was  easy. 

HILDA 
(Proudly} 
You  are  your  father's  son ! 

WALLACE 

Mother,  I  can't  stand  the  thought  of  killing,  you 
know  that.  And  I  couldn't  forget  all  you've  told  me. 
That's  why  I've  had  to  think  this  out  all  these  months 
alone;  why  I've  hesitated  longer  than  most  fellows. 
The  only  thing  I  was  really  afraid  of  was  being  wrong. 
But  now  I  know  I'm  right  and  I'm  going  clean  through 
to  the  limit. 

HILDA 

As  your  father  said  I'll  stand  by  you — whatever  it  is 
— if  only  you  feel  it's  right. 

WALLACE 

Will  you?  Will  you,  mother?  No  matter  what 
happens?  (She  nods.)  I  knew  you  would.  (Taking 
her  hand.)  Then  mother,  listen.  I've  volunteered. 


126  TIDES 

HILDA 

(Shocked) 
Volunteered ! 

WALLACE 
Yes.    I  leave  for  training-camp  to-night. 

HILDA 

To-night  ? 

WALLACE 

Yes,  mother.  Once  I  made  up  my  mind  I  couldn't 
wait  to  be  drafted.  I  wanted  to  offer  myself.  I  didn't 
want  to  be  made  to  go. 

HILDA 

(Hardly  grasping  it) 
But  you  are  too  young. 

WALLACE 

I  lied  about  my  age.  You  and  father  can  stop  me 
if  you  tell  the  truth.  That's  why  I've  come  back.  I 
want  you  to  promise  you  won't  tell. 

HILDA 
You  ask  me  to  aid  you  in  what  I  don't  believe? 

WALLACE 

But  you  said  you'd  stick  by  me  if  7  thought  it  was 
right. 

HILDA 
But 


TIDES  127 

WALLACE 
(With  fervor) 

And  I  tell  you,  mother,  I  do  feel  it  was  right  for 
America  to  go  in.  I  see  now  we  ought  to  have  declared 
war  when  they  crushed  Belgium.  Yes;  we  ought  to 
have  gone  in  when  the  Lusitania  was  sunk.  But  we've 
been  patient.  The  President  tried  to  keep  us  out  of 
it  until  we  had  to  go  in  to  save  our  self-respect.  We 
had  to  go  in  to  show  we  were  men  of  honor,  not  pussy 
cats.  We  had  to  go  in  to  show  the  world  the  Stars 
and  Stripes  wasn't  a  dishrag  on  which  the  Germans 
could  dry  their  bloody  hands! 

I 

HILDA 

(Gazing  at  him  incredulously) 
You  hate  them  as  much  as  that? 

WALLACE 

Hate?  No,  mother,  no.  (As  though  questioning 
himself.)  I  really  haven't  any  hate  for  the  German 
people.  People  are  just  people  everywhere,  I  suppose, 
and  they're  tricked  and  fooled  by  their  rotten  govern 
ment,  as  the  President  says. 

HILDA 
Then  why  fight  them? 

WALLACE 

Because  they're  standing  back  of  their  government, 
doing  what  it  says.  And  they've  got  to  be  licked  to 
show  them  what  kind  of  a  government  they  have. 


128  TIDES 

HILDA 

At  least  you  have  no  hate  in  your  heart — that's 
something. 

WALLACE 

Oh,  yes,  I  have,  mother.  But  it  isn't  for  the  poor 
devils  I've  got  to  shoot.  It's  for  the  stay-at-home 
fellow  here  in  America  who  sits  in  a  comfortable  arm 
chair,  who  applauds  patriotic  sentiment,  cheers  the 
flag  and  does  nothing  for  his  country  but  hate  and  hate 
— while  we  fight  for  him.  That's  the  fellow  I'll  hate 
all  right  when  I  sit  in  the  trenches.  And  that's  why 
I  couldn't  look  myself  in  the  face  if  I  stayed  out  a  day 
longer;  why,  I've  got  to  go  in;  why,  I'm  going  to  die 
if  I  must,  because  everybody  ought  to  be  willing  to  die 
for  what  he  believes. 

HILDA 

You  are  my  son,  too!  For  I  would  willingly  have 
died  if  it  could  have  kept  us  out  of  this  war. 

WALLACE 

Yes.  I  am  your  son,  too.  And  that's  why  you 
wouldn't  respect  me  if  I  didn't  go  through. 

HILDA 

No.  I  wouldn't  have  respected  you.  But  .  .  . 
but  .  .  .  (She  breaks  a  bit,  then  controls  herself.) 
You  are  quite  sure  you're  doing  what's  right? 

WALLACE 

( Tenderly  ) 

Would  I  have  been  willing  to  hurt  you  like  this  ? 


TIDES  129 

HILDA 

{Holding  him  close  to  her) 
My  boy;  my  boy! 

WALLACE 
It'll  be  all  right,  mother. 

HILDA 

Ah,  yes.     It  will  be  all  right.     Nothing  matters  in 
time:   it's  only  the  moments  that  hurt. 

WALLACE 
(After  a  pause) 
Then  you  won't  tell  my  real  age,  or  interfere? 

HILDA 
I   respect  your  right  to  decide  your  own  life. 

WALLACE 

(Joyed) 
Mother ! 

HILDA 

I  respect  your  dedication;  your  willingness  to  sacri 
fice  for  your  beliefs.  Why,  Wallace,  it  would  be  a 
crime  for  me  to  stand  in  your  way — even  with  my 
mother's  love.  (He  kisses  her.)  Do  it  all  as  cleanly 
as  you  can.  I'll  hope  and  pray  that  you'll  come  back 
to  me.  (Half  breaking  down  and  taking  him  in  her 
arms.)  Oh,  my  boy;  my  boy.  Let  me  hold  you. 
You'll  never  know  how  hard  it  is  for  a  mother. 


130  TIDES 

WALLACE 
(Gently) 
But  other  mothers  send  their  boys. 

HILDA 

Most  of  them  believe  in  what  their  sons  are  fighting 
for.  Mothers  have  got  to  believe  in  it;  or  else  how 
could  they  stand  the  thought  of  bayonets  stuck  into  the 
bodies  they  brought  forth  in  their  own  blood  ?  ( There 
is  a  pause  till  she  controls  herself.)  I'll  help  you  get 
your  things  together. 

WALLACE 
And  father? 

HILDA 
He  will  be  angry. 

WALLACE 
But  you  will  make  him  understand? 

HILDA 

I'll  try.  Yet  you  must  be  patient  with  him  if  he 
doesn't  understand.  Don't  ever  forget  his  long  fight 
against  all  kinds  of  Prussianism  when  'you  hear  him 
reviled  by  those  who  have  always  hated  his  radicalism 
and  who,  now,  under  the  guise  of  patriotism,  are 
trying  to  render  him  useless  for  further  attacks  on 
them  after  the  war.  He's  been  persecuted  so  by  them 
— even  back  in  the  days  when  our 'press  was  praising 
Germany  and  our  distinguished  citizens  were  dining  at 


TIDES  131 

the  Emperor's  table.  Don't  forget  all  this,  my  boy. 
These  days  are  hard  for  him — and  me — harder  perhaps 
than  for  you  who  go  out  to  die  in  glory  and  praise. 
There  are  no  flags  for  us,  no  music  that  stirs,  no  ap 
plause  ;  but  we  too  suffer  in  silence  for  what  we  believe. 
And  it  is  only  the  strongest  wrho  can  survive. — Now 
call  your  father. 

WALLACE 
(Goes  to  door) 

Dad!  (He  leaves  door  open  and  turns  to  his 
mother.)  I'll  be  getting  my  things  together.  (There 
is  a  pause.  WHITE  enters.)  Dad,  mother  has  some 
thing  to  ask  you.  (He  looks  from  father  to  mother.) 
Thanks,  little  mother. 

(He  kisses  her  and  goes  out  taking  the  valise. 
His  father  and  mother  stand  facing  each  other.) 

HILDA 

Wallace  has  volunteered.  (He  looks  at  her  keenly.) 
He  has  lied  about  his  age.  He  wants  us  to  let  him  go. 

WHITE 

Volunteered  ? 

HILDA 
Yes ;  he  leaves  to-night. 

WHITE 

(After  a  pause) 
And  what  have  you  told  him? 


132  TIDES 

HILDA 
That  he  must  go. 

WHITE 
You  can  say  that? 

HILDA 
It  is  the  way  he  sees  it. 

WHITE 

(Going  to  her  sympathetically) 
Hilda. 

HILDA 

(Looking  up  at  him  tenderly) 

Oh,  Will,  do  you  remember  when  he  was  born? 
(He  soothes  her.)  And  all  we  nursed  him  through 
afterwards;  and  all  we  taught  him;  all  we  tried  to 
show  him  about  war.  (With  a  shrug  of  her  shoul 
ders.)  None  of  it  has  mattered. 

WHITE 
War  is  stronger  than  all  that. 

HILDA 
So  we  mustn't  blame  him.    You  won't  blame  him? 

WHITE 
He  fears  I  will? 


TIDES  133 

HILDA 

He  has  always  feared  you  a  little  though  he  loves 
you  deeply.  You  mustn't  oppose  him,  dear.  You 
won't? 

WHITE 
(Wearily) 

Is  there  any  use  opposing  anybody  or  anything  these 
days? 

HILDA 
We  must  wait  till  the  storm  passes. 

WHITE 
That's  never  been  my  way. 

HILDA 

No.  You've  fought  all  your  life.  But  now  we 
must  sit  silent  together  and  wait;  wait  for  our  boy  to 
come  back.  Will,  think  of  it;  we  are  going  to  have 
a  boy  "  over  there,"  too. 

WHITE 

Hilda,  hasn't  it  ever  struck  you  that  we  may  have 
been  all  wrong?  (She  looks  at  him,  as  she  holds  his 
hand.)  What  could  these  frail  hands  do?  How 
could  we  poor  little  King  Canutes  halt  this  tide  that 
has  swept  over  the  world  ?  Isn't  it  better,  after  all,  that 
men  should  fight  themselves  out ;  bring  such  desolation 
upon  themselves  that  they  will  be  forced  to  see  the 
futility  of  war?  May  it  not  become  so  terrible  that 
men — the  wrorkers,  I  mean — will  throw  down  their 


134  TIDES 

worn-out  weapons  of  their  own  accord  ?  Won't  perma 
nent  peace  come  through  bitter  experience  rather  than 
talk— talk— talk? 


HILDA 

(Touching  the  torn  pages  of  his  speech  and  smiling) 
Here  is  your  answer  to  your  own  question. 

WHITE 

Oh,  that  was  all  theory.  We're  in  now.  You  say 
yourself  we  can't  oppose  it.  Isn't  it  better  if  we  try  to 
direct  the  current  to  our  own  ends  rather  than  sink  by 
trying  to  swim  against  it? 

HILDA 

Oh,  yes;  it  would  be  easier  for  one  who  could  com 
promise. 

WHITE 

But  haven't  we  radicals  been  too  intolerant  of  com 
promise  ? 

HILDA 

That  has  been  y&ur  strength.  And  it  is  your 
strength  I'm  relying  on  now  that  Wallace  .  .  . 
Shall  I  call  him? 

WHITE 
(Significantly) 
No;  wait. 


TIDES  135 

HILDA 

(Apprehensive  at  his  turn} 

Oh,  yes.  Before  he  came  you  said  there  was  some 
thing  .  .  .  ?  ( The  phone  rings.  They  both  look 
at  it.)  That's  for  you. 

WHITE 
(Not  moving) 
Yes. 

HILDA 

(Hardly  believing  his  attitude) 
Is — is  it  private? 

WHITE 

No.  Perhaps  it  will  be  easier  this  way.  (He  hesi 
tates,  then  goes  to  phone  as  she  stands  expectant.)  Yes. 
Yes.  Long  Distance?  Washington?  (Her  lips  re 
peat  the  word.)  Yes.  This  is  William  White.  Hello. 
Yes.  Is  this  the  Secretary  speaking?  Oh,  I  appreciate 
the  honor  of  having  you  confirm  it  personally.  Sena 
tor  Bough  is  chairman?  At  his  request?  Ah,  yes; 
war  makes  strange  bedfellows.  Yes.  The  passport 
and  credentials?  Oh,  I'll  be  ready.  Yes.  Good-bye. 
(He  hangs  up  the  receiver  and  looks  at  her.) 

HILDA 
You,  too! 

WHITE 

I've  been  trying  to  tell  you  these  last  weeks;  but 
I  couldn't  somehow. 


136  TIDES 

HILDA 
You  were  ashamed? 

WHITE 
No,  dear;  only  I  knew  it  would  hurt  you. 

HILDA 

I'm  not  thinking  of  myself  but  of  you.  You  are 
going  to  be  part  of  this  war  ? 

WHITE 
I'm  going  to  do  what  I  can  to  help  finish  it. 

HILDA 
By  compromising  with  the  beliefs  of  a  lifetime? 

WHITE 

No,  dear;  not  that.  I've  accepted  the  appointment 
on  this  commission  because  I'm  going  to  accept  facts. 

HILDA 
Have  the  facts  of  war  changed  or  is  it  you  ? 

WHITE 

Neither  has  changed;  but  I'm  going  to  act  differ 
ently.  I'm  going  to  be  part  of  it.  Yes.  I'm  going  to 
help  direct  the  current. 

HILDA 

I  can't  believe  what  I  am  hearing.  Is  it  you, 
William  White,  speaking?  You  who,  for  twenty 
years,  have  stood  against  all  war ! 


TIDES  137 

WHITE 
Yes. 

HILDA 

And  now  when  the  test  comes  you  are  going  to  lend 
yourself  to  it!  You  of  all  men! 

WHITE 

Hilda,  dear;  I  didn't  expect  you  to  accept  it  easily; 
but  I  think  I  can  make  you  see  if  you  will  let  me. 

HILDA 
(Poignantly} 

If  I  will  let  you !  Why,  Will,  I  must  understand ; 
I  must. 

WHITE 

Perhaps  it  will  be  difficult  at  first — with  your 
standards. 

HILDA 

But  my  standards  were  yours,  Will.  You  gave 
them  to  me.  You  taught  me.  You  took  a  young  girl 
who  loved  you.  You  showed  her  the  truth,  and  she 
followed  you  and  has  followed  you  gladly  through 
hard  years  of  struggle  and  poverty  because  of  those 
ideals.  And  now  you  talk  of  7773;  standards!  Will, 
don't  you  see,  I  must  understand? 

WHITE 

Dear,  standards  are  relative  things;  they  differ  with 
circumstance. 


138  TIDES 

HILDA 

Have  your  ideals  only  been  old  clothes  you  change 
to  suit  the  weather? 

WHITE 

It's  the  end  we  must  keep  in  mind.  7  haven't 
changed  or  compromised  one  bit  in  that.  I'm  work 
ing  in  changed  conditions,  that's  all;  working  with  all 
my  heart  to  do  away  with  all  war. 

HILDA 
By  fighting  one? 

WHITE 

(With  eloquence) 

Yes.  Because  it  is  necessary.  I've  come  to  see  we 
can't  argue  war  out  of  the  world  with  words.  We've 
got  to  beat  it  out  of  the  world.  It  can't  be  done  with 
our  hands  lifted  up  in  prayer;  it  can  only  be  done 
with  iron  hands  crushing  it  down.  War  is  the  mood 
of  the  world.  Well,  I'm  going  to  fight  in  my  fashion. 
And  when  it  is  over  I'm  going  to  keep  on  fighting;  for 
the  next  war  will  be  greater  than  this.  It  will  be 
economic  revolution.  It  will  be  the  war  of  capital 
and  labor.  And  I  mean  to  be  ready. 

HILDA 

(  Listening  incredulously ) 

And  to  get  ready  you  are  willing  to  link  arms  now 
with  Senator  Bough — a  man  you  once  called  the  lackey 


TIDES  139 

of  Wall  Street — a  man  who  has  always  opposed  every 
democratic  principle    .    .    *^ 

WHITE 

Yes.  Don't  you  see  the  Government  is  beginning 
to  realize  they  can't  do  without  us?  Don't  you  see  my 
appointment  is  an  acknowledgment  of  the  rising  tide 
of  radicalism  in  the  world  ?  Don't  you  see,  with  the 
prestige  that  will  come  to  me  from  this  appointment, 
I  will  have  greater  power  after  the  war;  power  to 
bring  about  the  realization  of  all  our  dreams;  power 
to  demand — even  at  the  Peace  table  itself,  perhaps — 
that  all  wars  must  end  ? 

HILDA 

Do  you  actually  believe  you  will  have  any  power 
with  your  own  people  when  you  have  compromised 
them  for  a  temporary  expediency? 

WHITE 

(With  a  gesture) 

The  leader  must  be  wuser  than  the  people  who 
follow. 

HILDA 

So,  contempt  for  your  people  is  the  first  thing  your 
new  power  has  brought  you!  (He  makes  a  gesture  of 
denial.)  You  feel  you  are  above  them — not  of  them. 
Do  you  believe  for  a  moment  that  Senator  Bough  has 
anything:  but  contempt  for  you,  too? 


140  TIDES 

WHITE 
(Confidently) 
He  needs  me. 

HILDA 

Needs  you?  Don't  you  understand  why  he  had  you 
appointed  on  that  committee?  He  wanted  to  get  you 
out  of  the  way. 

WHITE 
Isn't  that  an  acknowledgment  of  my  power? 

HILDA 

Yes.  You're  a  great  asset  now.  You're  a  "  re 
formed  "  radical.  Why,  Will,  he'll  use  you  in  the 
capitals  of  Europe  to  advertise  his  liberalism ;  just  as 
the  prohibitionist  exhibits  a  reformed  drunkard. 

WHITE 

And  I  tell  you,  Hilda,  after  the  war  I  shall  be 
stronger  than  he  is,  stronger  than  any  of  them. 

HILDA 

No  man  is  strong  unless  he  does  what  he  feels  is 
right.  No,  no,  Will;  you've  convicted  yourself  with 
your  own  eloquence.  You've  wanted  to  do  this  for 
some  reason.  But  it  isn't  the  one  you've  told  me. 
No;  no. 

WHITE 
(Angrily) 
You  doubt  my  sincerity? 


TIDES  141 

HILDA 
No;  only  the  way  you  have  read  yourself. 


WHITE 

Well,  if  you  think  I've  tried  to  make  it  easy  for  my 
self  you  are  mistaken.  Is  it  easy  to  pull  out  of  the 
rut  and  habit  of  years?  Easy  to  know  my  friends  will 
jeer  and  say  I've  sold  out?  Easy  to  have  you  mis 
understand?  (Goes  to  her.)  Hilda,  I'm  doing  this 
for  their  good.  I'm  doing  it — just  as  Wallace  is — 
because  I  feel  it's  right. 

HILDA 

No ;  you  shouldn't  say  that.  You  are  not  doing  this 
for  the  same  reason  Wallace  is.  He  believes  in  this 
war.  He  has  accepted  it  all  simply  without  a  ques 
tion.  If  you  had  seen  the  look  in  his  eyes,  you  would 
have  known  he  was  a  dedicated  spirit;  there  was  no 
shadow,  no  doubt;  it  was  pure  flame.  But  you!  You 
believe  differently!  You  can't  hush  the  mind  that  for 
twenty  years  has  thought  no  war  ever  could  henceforth 
be  justified.  You  can't  give  yourself  to  this  war  with 
out  tricking  yourself  with  phrases.  You  see  power  in  it 
and  profit  for  yourself.  (He  protests.)  That's  your 
own  confession.  You  are  only  doing  what  is  expedient 
— not  what  is  right.  Oh,  Will,  don't  compare  your 
motives  with  those  of  our  son.  I  sent  him  forth,  with 
out  a  word  of  protest,  because  he  wishes  to  die  for  his 
own  ideals:  you  are  killing  your  own  ideals  for  the 
ideals  of  others!  (She  turns  away.)  Oh,  Will,  that's 


142  TIDES 

what  hurts.     If  you  were  only  like  him,  I — I  could 
stand  it. 


WHITE 

(Quietly,  after  a  pause) 

I  can't  be  angry  at  you — even  when  you  say  such 
things.  You've  been  too  much  a  part  of  my  life,  and 
work,  and  I  love  you,  Hilda.  You  know  that,  don't 
you,  dear?  (He  sits  beside  her  and  takes  her  hand.) 
I  knew  it  would  be  difficult  to  make  you  understand. 
Only  once  have  I  lacked  courage  and  that  was  when 
I  felt  myself  being  drawn  into  this  and  they  offered  me 
the  appointment.  For  then  I  saw  I  must  tell  you. 
You  know  I  never  have  wanted  to  cause  you  pain. 
But  when  you  asked  me  to  let  Wallace  go,  I  thought 
you  would  understand  my  going,  too. — Oh,  perhaps 
our  motives  are  different;  he  is  young:  war  has  caught 
his  imagination ;  but,  I,  too,  see  a  duty,  a  way  to  accom 
plish  my  ideals. 

HILDA 

Let's  leave  ideals  out  of  this  now.  It's  like  bitter 
enemies  praying  to  the  same  God  as  they  kill  each 
other. 

WHITE 

Yes.  War  is  full  of  ironies.  I  see  that:  Wallace 
can't.  It's  so  full  of  mixed  motives,  good  and  bad. 
Yes.  I'll  grant  all  that.  Only  America  has  gone  in. 
The  whole  tide  was  against  us,  dear.  It  is  sweeping 
over  the  world :  a  brown  tide  of  khaki  sweeping  every- 


TIDES  H3 

thing  before  it.  All  my  life  I've  fought  against  the 
current.  (Wearily)  And  now  that  I've  gone  in,  too, 
my  arms  seem  less  tired.  Yes ;  and  except  for  the  pain 
I've  caused  you,  I've  never  in  all  my  life  felt  so — so 
happy. 

( Then  she  understands.     She  slowly  turns  to 

him,  with  tenderness  in  her  eyes.) 

HILDA 

Oh,  now,  Will,  I  do  understand.  Now  I  see  the 
real  reason  for  what  you've  done. 

WHITE 
(Defensively) 
I've  given  the  real  reason. 

HILDA 

(Her  heart  going  out  to  him) 

You  poor  tired  man.  My  dear  one.  Forgive  me, 
if  I  made  it  difficult  for  you ;  if  I  said  cruel  words.  I 
ought  to  have  guessed ;  ought  to  have  seen  what  life  has 
done  to  you.  (He  looks  up,  not  understanding  her 
words.)  Those  hands  of  yours  first  dug  a  living  out 
of  the  ground.  Then  they  built  houses  and  grew 
strong  because  you  were  a  workman — a  man  of  the 
people.  You  saw  injustice  and  all  your  life  you  fought 
against  those  who  had  the  power  to  inflict  it:  the  press; 
the  comfortable  respectables,  like  my  brother;  and 
even  those  of  your  own  group  who  opposed  you — you 
fought  them  all.  And  they  look  at  you  as  an  outsider, 
an  alien  in  your  own  country.  Oh,  Will,  I  know  how 


H4  TIDES 

hard  it  has  been  for  you,  to  be  always  on  the  de 
fensive,  against  the  majority.  It  is  hard  to  live  alone 
away  from  the  herd.  It  does  tire  one  to  the  bone  and 
make  one  envious  of  the  comfort  and  security  they 
find  by  being  together. 

WHITE 
Yes    ..    but    ... 

HILDA 

Now  the  war  comes  and  with  it  a  chance  to  get 
back;  to  be  part  of  the  majority;  to  be  welcomed  with 
open  arms  by  those  who  have  fought  you;  to  go  back 
with  honor  and  praise.  And,  yes,  to  have  the  warmth 
and  comfort  of  the  crowd.  That's  the  real  reason 
you're  going  in.  You're  tired  and  worn  out  with  the 
fight.  I  know.  I  understand  now. 

WHITE 
(Earnestly) 
If  I  thought  it  was  that,  I'd  kill  myself. 

HILDA 

There's  been  enough  killing  already.  I  have  to 
understand  it  somehow  to  accept  it  at  all. 

(He  stares  at  her,  wondering  at  her  words. 
She  smiles.  He  goes  to  a  chair  and  sits  down, 
gazing  before  him.  The  music  of  "  Over 
There "  is  now  heard  outside  in  the  street, 
approaching  nearer  and  nearer.  It  is  a  military 
band.  WALLACE  excitedly  rushes  in  dressed  in 
khaki.) 


TIDES  145 

WALLACE 

Mother,  mother.  The  boys  are  coming  down  the 
street.  (Sees  father.)  Dad!  Mother  has  told  you? 

HILDA 
(Calmly) 
Yes;  I've  told  him. 

WALLACE 
And  you're  going  to  let  me  go,  Dad? 

HILDA 
Yes. 

WALLACE 

Oh,  thanks,  Dad.  (Grasping  his  hand.)  I  knew 
mother  would  make  you  see.  (Music  nearer.) 
Listen!  Isn't  that  a  great  tune?  Lifts  you  up  on 
your  feet  and  carries  you  over  there.  Gee,  it  just  gets 
into  a  fellow  and  makes  him  want  to  run  for  his  gun 
and  charge  over  the  top.  (He  goes  to  balcony.)  Look! 
They're  nearing  here ;  all  ready  to  sail  with  the  morn 
ing  tide.  They've  got  their  helmets  on.  You  can't 
see  the  end  of  them  coming  dowyn  the  avenue.  Oh, 
thank  God,  I'm  going  to  be  one  of  them  soon.  Thank 
God !  I'm  going  to  fight  for  Uncle  Sam  and  the  Stars 
and  Stripes.  (Calls  off.)  Hurrah!  (To  them.)  Oh, 
I  wish  I  had  a  flag.  Why  haven't  we  got  a  flag  here — 
Hurrah!! 

(As  he  goes  out  on  the  balcony  the  music  plays 
louder.    HILDA  has  gone  to  WHITE  during  this, 


146  TIDES 

and  stands  behind  him,  with  her  arms  down  his 
arms,  as  he  sits  there,  gazing  before  him.) 

HILDA 

(fervently) 
Oh,  Will,  if  I  could  only  feel  it  as  he  does!! 

(The  music  begins  to  trail  off  as  WHITE  ten 
derly  takes  hold  of  her  hands.) 


[CURTAIN] 


'  AMONG   THE    LIONS 


THE  PEOPLE 

PATRICIA  TENNER,  a  popular  " star" 

MRS.  EMILY  FROWDE,  ({  a  lion-hunter" 

Miss  EVA  STANNARD,  about  whom  there  has  been  talk. 

TrtE  BROWN  ONE,         1 

THE  BLUE  ONE,  Y  as  they  appear  to  Patricia. 

THE  GREEN  ONE, 

M.  MAVOSKY,  an  artist  cr  who's  all  the  rage." 

GEORGE    SILVERTON,    a   musician;   an    old   friend   of 

Patricia. 
OTHER  GUESTS. 


SCENE 

Drawing-room   at  Mrs.   Frowde's   during   a   small 
reception  given  to  Patricia  Tenner.    A  late  afternoon. 


AMONG   THE    LIONS* 

j>fN   elaborate  drawing-room   is   disclosed,   with 

y~¥  bare  high-paneled  walls,  relieved  only  by 
attractive  candle-clusters  and  a  stretch  of 
tapestry.  At  back  is  an  alcove  effect  in  which  a  piano 
is  seen,  with  the  usual  decorations  of  a  music-room 
suggested  beyond.  There  are  two  openings  which  lead 
to  the  hallways  and  street  doors  without.  Opposite 
these  is  a  stone-built  fireplace  with  a  smoldering  log 
blaze  and  attractive  "  British  Soldier  "  andirons.  By 
this  rests  a  deep  chair  which  tones  with  the  other 
furnishings.  A  tea-table,  resplendent  with  silver,  stands 
obliquely  in  the  center,  with  lighted  candles.  Appro 
priate  ferns  and  flowers  rest  in  likely  places. 

GEORGE  SILVERTON  is  playing  a  Chopin  etude  in  the 
music-room;  about  the  opening  are  grouped  PATRICIA 
TENNER,  MRS.  FROWDE,  THE  BROWN  ONE,  THE 
GREEN  ONE,  THE  BLUE  ONE  and  others.  They  are 
listening,  duly  impressed  by  the  touch  of  an  expert. 

MAVOSKY,  the  artist,  is  standing  off  alone  by  the  tea- 
table  complacently  munching  a  macaroon  and  eyeing 
PATRICIA. 

MAVOSKY  is  about  forty,  tall,  with  large  eyes  and  a 
pointed  beard.  There  is  a  slight  Russian  accent  in  his 
speech  and  his  manners  have  the  studied  spontaneity  of 

*  Copyright  by  George  Middleton.     See  back  of  title  page. 


150  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

a  professional  foreigner  exploiting  a  new  field.  As  he 
continues  to  watch  PATRICIA  with  a  cynical  smile,  she 
leaves  the  group  unobserved  by  the  others  and  moves 
towards  the  low,  deep  chair  near  the  fireplace. 

PATRICIA  has  the  large  features  of  a  stage-beauty, 
which  enhance  her  appearance  before  the  footlights. 
Her  hair  is  parted  and  coiled  low  on  her  neck.  She  is 
elegantly  gowned,  and  carries  a  long,  elaborate  scarf 
which  is  hung  across  her  back  and  held  by  each  arm. 
She  uses  this  continually  to  increase  her  instinctive 
plasticity.  As  she  turns  there  is  a  serious  expression 
upon  her  face,  as  though,  for  once  she  had  been  her  true 
self. 

PATRICIA 

(Almost  inaudibly} 
George  Silverton.     Poor  George! 

(She  seems  to  feel  MAVOSKY'S  eyes;  but  again 
mistress  of  herself,  turns,  and  smiles  invitingly. 
Then  she  drapes  herself  artistically  in  the  chair. 
MAVOSKY  comes  with  the  plate  of  macaroons, 
which  she  declines  with  a  pretty  gesture.  He 
replaces  them  on  the  table,  and,  seeing  no  one 
is  watching,  returns  to  her,  speaking  softly  as 
the  music  continues.) 

MAVOSKY 
Quel  charme! 

PATRICIA 
The  ?own  or  the  pose? 


AMONG  THE  LIONS  151 

MAVOSKY 

Mademoiselle  Tenner,  in  your  profession  they  are 
inseparable. 

PATRICIA 

We  actresses  belong  only  to  each  moment  we  act. 
It  is  your  profession  which  fastens  us  as  we  should  be 
in  the  memory  of  others. 


MAVOSKY 
Perhaps  that  is  why  my  portraits  please. 

PATRICIA 

(Bantering  charmingly) 
And  you  only  take  celebrities,  Monsieur  Mavosky. 

MAVOSKY 

I   wish    to   go   to   posterity   on    the   hem   of    their 
garments. 

PATRICIA 
(Smiling) 

Some  day  7  may  wear  a  gown  that  pleases  you,  eh? 
(He  starts  to  answer,  but  the  music  stops  and 
the  others  applaud  in  perfect  taste.  He  offers 
his  hand  in  parting,  as  she  seems  to  invite  it.) 

MAVOSKY 

Au  revoir. 


i52  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

PATRICIA 

(With  a  fascinating  smile) 
Deja? 

(He  bows  far  over  her  hand  and  their  eyes  meet 
with  interest.  As  he  turns  away,  while  the 
others  come  into  the  room,  PATRICIA  gives  a 
secret  smile  of  satisfaction,  as  though  she  had 
obtained  her  intention.  Then  she  sighs  wearily, 
bored,  as  she  glances  at  the  others. 

MRS.  FROWDE,  the  hostess  is  about  fifty,  look 
ing  forty;  rather  large  and  as  self-contained  as 
possible  in  her  loose  black  tea-gown.  She  is  a 
-  nervous  woman  with  an  apparent  seriousness  in 
her  social  undertakings.  Her  eyes  are  continu 
ally  criticizing  and  her  hands  correcting.  She 
has  a  gracious  voice,  and  towards  PATRICIA,  at 
least f  a  possessive  protectiveness. 

THE  BROWN  ONE  has  a  good  profile  from 
her  chin  up,  but  otherwise,  in  spite  of  lacing,  is 
stout.  Her  tan  gown  makes  up  in  elegance 
what  it  lacks  in  outline. 

The  clinging  gown  of  THE  BLUE  ONE  ac 
centuates  the  languid  manner  she  affects.  There 
is  a  satisfied,  set  smile  upon  her  aquiline  face  and 
her  voice  maintains  a  gentle,  persistent  tremolo. 

THE  GREEN  ONE  is  younger  than  the  others 
and  in  general  indefiniteness  of  bearing  and  ap 
pearance  merely  suggests  money.  Her  olive- 


AMONG  THE  LIONS  153 

trimmed  gown  is  very  simple,  but  is  caught  by  a 
conspicuous  jade  belt. 

These,  with  the  other  guests  who  gradually 
depart^  suggest  the  atmosphere  of  a  conventional 
tea.) 

OMNES 

(Enthusiastically  to  Silverton) 
How  delightful !     How  wonderful ! 

(GEORGE  SILVERTON  is  medium-sized,  in  the 
late  thirties,  with  a  fine,  sensitive  face  and  short- 
cropped  hair.  He  is  retiring  in  manner  and 
seems  ill  at  ease  in  the  present  company. 
Towards  PATRICIA,  however,  this  disappears 
and  it  is  evident  he  has  known  her  well.) 

THE  BROWN  ONE 
(Shrugging  her  shoulders,  and  splashing  each  sentence 

with   jerky   gestures   throughout.) 
He  has  such  a  je-ne-sais-quoi.    Don't  you  think? 

THE  BLUE  ONE 
(In  a  shocked  tone) 
I'd  hardly  put  it  that  way. 

SILVERTON 

(To  THE  BROWN  ONE) 
You  compliment  me. 


154  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

MRS.  FROWDE 

Didn't   Pachmann  play   that   at  the   Philharmonic 
Friday  ? 

THE  GREEN  ONE 
How  should  I  know? 

MRS.  FROWDE 

I  wish  they'd  announce  what  they  play  as  an  encore 
so  I  can  recognize  it. 

THE  BROWN  ONE 

We  need  a  Chopin  in  this  country.    Do  you  compose, 
Mr.  Silverton? 

THE  BLUE  ONE 

(Who  has  come  down  to  PATRICIA) 
It  must  be  splendid  to  be  a  real  artist,  Miss  Tenner, 
instead   of  just  having  money.      We   have   to   be  so 
careful. 

(PATRICIA    smiles    and    nods    understandingly 
throughout.     SILVERTON,  apparently  ill  at  ease, 
comes  beside  PATRICIA  as  MAVOSKY  is  speaking 
to  MRS.  FROWDE  and  the  others  at  the  table.) 
Oh,   Mr.  Silverton,  your  playing  made  me  so — so — 
(at  a  loss  for  words)  don't  you  know? 

SILVERTON 
(Stiffly) 

Music  is  the  only  mental  adventure  in  good  and  evil 
which  some  of  us  ever  have. 


AMONG  THE  LIONS  155 

THE  BLUE  ONE 

How  clever  of  you !  I  wonder  if  that's  why  I  adore 
Tristan?  You  will  come  to  my  next  Thursday  and 
play  for  me?  /  need  adventure.  (She  laughs,  tremu 
lously)  I'll  have  some  people  there  if  I  may  tell  them 
you  are  coming. 

SlLVERTON 

(Hiding  his  displeasure) 
Charmed. 

THE  BLUE  ONE 
(To  PATRICIA) 

You  have  a  beastly  rehearsal  then,  haven't  you?  So 
sorry. 

(PATRICIA  smiles  as  though  regretful,  and  the 
three  continue  talking.) 

MRS.  FROWDE 

(By  the  table,  shaking  MAVOSKY'S  hand) 
Must  you  go? 

MAVOSKY 
Only  till  luncheon  Tuesday. 

MRS.  FROWDE 

(Aside  to  him) 

It  was  good  of  you  to  meet  her. 

MAVOSKY 

(Looking  across  to  PATRICIA) 
Miss  Tenner  is  a  poem  in  pose. 


156  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

THE  BROWN  ONE 

(Who  has  been  maneuvering  to  be  in  his  line  of  de 
parture,  as  MRS.  FROWDE  turns  to  give  THE  GREEN 
ONE  a  cup  of  tea.) 

M.  Mavosky,  I've  heard  if  you  wait  at  Port  Said 
you'll  sooner  or  later  meet  everyone  you  know.  Here, 
at  Mrs.  Frowde's,  one  only  meets  those  one  wishes, 
nest-ce  pas? 

MAVOSKY 
(Gallantly) 
You  American  women! 

THE  BROWN  ONE 
I'll  bring  my  husband  to  see  your  portraits.    May  I  ? 

MAVOSKY 
(Bowing) 
You  speak  for  his  taste. 

THE  BROWN  ONE 

(Pleased) 

He  actually  threatens  to  have  one  of  me,  and  wishes 
the  very  best  that  can  possibly  be  painted. 

(They  exchange  pleasantries,  and  as  MAVOSKY 
passes  out  he  glances  towards  PATRICIA,  who  has 
been  watching  him,  while  SILVERTON  has  en 
gaged  THE  BLUE  ONE,  who  by  now  has  joined 
THE  GREEN  ONE  and  THE  BROWN  ONE  and 
MRS.  FROWDE  at  the  table.  They  laugh  as 
SILVERTON  and  PATRICIA  find  a  change  to 
snatch  a  few  words  unheard.) 


AMONG  THE  LIONS  15? 

SlLVERTON 

(Referring  to  THE  BLUE  ONE) 
Who  is  she  that  I  must  pay  for  my  tea  by  playing 
for  her  Thursday? 

PATRICIA 
(Flippantly) 

Her  name  begins  with  T.  Her  husband  owns  Thj 
Star.  It's  been  good  to  me.  I  call  her  The  Blue 
One;  I  no  longer  remember  names.  People  are  color 
to  me.  See  the  stout  one — like  an  overfed  question 
mark?  She  seems  brown  all  through.  Have  you 
heard  her  talk?  With  her  (imitating  and  shrugging 
shoulders)  "  je-ne-sais-quois  "  ?  No  one  who  is  fat 
should  speak  French.  And  The  Green  One — ugh! — 
with  the  jade  life-belt! 

SlLVERTON 

(Seriously) 

Pat,  why  do  you  still  come  to  these  stupid  affairs? 

PATRICIA 
There  are  still  things  /  may  want,  too. 

£       SlLVERTON 

Mavosky  ? 

PATRICIA 

A  portrait  by  him  in  my  new  role.  Yes.  Mrs. 
Frowde  knew  him.  Voila. 


158  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

SlLVERTON 

I  sec:  that's  how  you  still  get  things. 

PATRICIA 

Mrs.  Frowde  is  the  greatest  "  lion-hunter  "  in  cap 
tivity.  She  is  happy  to-day;  she's  caught  three  of  us: 
a  star,  a  painter,  and  a  promising  musician.  That's 
why  you're  here,  isn't  it?  (He  nods.)  You've  finally 
decided  to  follow  the  advice  I  gave  you  when  we  first 
came  East 

SlLVERTON 

Yes:  how  different  it  was  then 


PATRICIA 
(Reminiscently) 
Yes — how  different! 

MRS.  FROWDE 
(Gently   restraining   THE   BROWN    ONE,    who    has 

started  towards  PATRICIA  and  SILVERTON) 
I've  heard  they  had  quite  a  romance  once. 

THE  BROWN  ONE 

How  romantic!    I  wish  my  husband  played  a  piano. 
(They  talk.) 

PATRICIA 

(Quietly  to  SILVERTON) 

Funny,  George,  while  you  were  playing  I  was  think 
ing  of  when  I  hadn't  a  job  and  you  were  copying  for  a 


AMONG  THE  LIONS  159 

living.  Your  music  actually  made  me  want  to  throw 
off  all  my  insincerities  here  just  for  once  and  see  what 
would  happen. 

SlLVERTON 

They'd  be  shocked 

PATRICIA 
And  I'd  be  chilly. 

SlLVERTON 

But  /  couldn't  be  of  any  use  to  you — then. 

PATRICIA 

No ;  my  "  art "  wasn't  big  enough  to  succeed  by 
itself  alone.  I  had  to  play  the  game — get  influence — 
(He  protests.)  Oh,  I  know  myself,  George;  I  was 
cruel  to  you  and  all  the  others.  Some  day,  just  to 
square  myself  in  my  own  eyes,  I'll  tell  people  like  these 
here  about  my  life  and  how  I  have  always  used  them 
to  get  what  I  wanted. 

SlLVERTON 

(Surprised) 
What  is  the  matter,  Pat?    You're  not  yourself. 

PATRICIA 
(Smiling) 
I'm  having  a  rush  of  sincerity  to  my  lips. 

SlLVERTON 

(Looking  over  toward  the  others) 
I  wonder  what  they  would  say  if  it  slipped  out? 


160  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

PATRICIA 

Perhaps  they'd  say   it  was   "  temperament."     I've 
affected  it  so  much  I  actually  believe  I've  got  it. 

MRS.  FROWDE 
(Laughing  with  others) 

Mavosky  is  so  clever ;  he  said  in  America  passion  was 
only  sentiment  waving  a  red  flag! 

THE  GREEN  ONE 

He  told  me  art  had  no  morals  and  I  understood 
him.     He's  so  subtle. 

SILVERTON 
(To   PATRICIA) 
If  I  could  but  make  phrases. 

PATRICIA 
(Rising,  wearily) 
I  don't  have  to;  I  smile  them. 

MRS.  FROWDE 
(Coming  down  anxiously) 
Surely,  you're  not  going  yet,  Patricia? 

THE  GREEN  ONE 
(To  THE  BROWN  ONE) 
She  calls  her  Patricia! 

MRS.  FROWDE 
(Offering  PATRICIA  a  cup) 
I've  fixed  it  the  way  you  like  it — no  lemon. 


AMONG  THE  LIONS  161 

PATRICIA 
(Declining) 
You  are  so  thoughtful,  dear  Emily. 

THE  GREEN  ONE 
(To  THE  BROWN  ONE) 
Emily ! 

THE  BLUE  ONE 
(Coming  to  PATRICIA) 
I'm  just  dying  to  see  your  Rosalind. 

PATRICIA 
(Beautifully    covering   with   an    air   of  sincerity    her 

mockery  which  SILVERTON  alone  detects) 
You  may  before  you  do. 

THE  GREEN  ONE 

(In  surprise) 
But  the  papers  say 

PATRICIA 

You  mustn't  believe  all  you  see  there.     My  press 
agent  has  imagination. 

THE  BLUE  ONE 
(Cozily  to  the  others) 

Isn't  it  splendid  to  be  taken  into  her  confidence. 
(PATRICIA  darts  a  humorous  glance  at  SlLVER- 
TON.) 


1 62  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

THE  BROWN  ONE 
I  should  think  you'd  be  tired  going  out  so  much. 


PATRICIA 

Mrs.  Frowde's  friends  are  always  interesting  and 
proper — a  rare  combination.  (Smiling.)  Her  idea  of 
a  tragedy  would  be  a  social  mishap — that  way. 


MRS.  FROWDE 
(Protectively) 

I  warn  her  against  overtaxing  herself — and  with  that 
trying  part  to  play  every  night. 

PATRICIA 

Whenever  it  gets  trying  to  me  I  think  of  the 
audience. 

MRS.  FROWDE 
(As  the  others  laugh) 

I  always  said  one  must  have  a  sense  of  humor  off 
the  stage  to  play  the  parts  you  do. 

PATRICIA 

I  get  my  inspiration  from  my  friends;  a  cup  of  tea, 
and  brilliant  conversation  before  the  horrid  time  to  go 
and  "  make  up." 


AMONG  THE  LIONS  163 

THE  GREEN  ONE 
Doesn't  all  the  make-up  hurt  the  complexion  ? 

PATRICIA 
(Sweetly) 
I  always  use  cold  cream  first — don't  you? 

(An  abrupt  halt  in  the  laughter  comes  as  Miss 
EVA  STANNARD  enters  and  pauses  momentarily 
in  the  doorway. 

Miss  STANNARD  is  about  twenty-nine,  tall, 
vibrant  and  almost  imperious  in  bearing.  Her 
forehead  is  high,  her  eyes  keen  and  her  mouth 
thin  and  tense.  She  is  gowned  in  gray. 

PATRICIA  is  immediately  interested  in  her  and 
in  the  constrained  attitude  of  the  others. 

Miss  STANNARD  slowly  comes  to  MRS. 
FROWDE,  bowing  graciously,  as  she  passes,  to  the 
others,  who  return  it  with  sickly  smiles,  ex 
changing  secret  looks  of  surprise  and  indigna 
tion.  MRS.  FROWDE  in  her  obvious  embarrass 
ment,  instead  of  offering  her  hand,  proffers  the 
tea-cup,  which  Miss  STANNARD  smilingly  de 
clines.  THE  BLUE  ONE,  with  rare  presence 
of  mind,  coughs,  and  the  others  all  laugh  nerv 
ously,  as  though  to  cover  the  silence  which  has 
ensued. 

PATRICIA  slowly  sits  again,  with  SILVERTON 
standing  by  her  chair,  intensely  interested  and 
curious.) 


1 64  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

Miss  STANNARD 

(Sweetly) 

I  had  no  idea,  Mrs.  Frowde,  you  were  receiving 
formally  to-day. 

MRS.  FROWDE 
(Constrained  throughout) 

I  only  sent  out  a  few  special  cards  to  meet  Miss 
Tenner.  But  now  that  you've  come,  let  me  present  you 
to  her.  Miss  Stannard. 

PATRICIA 

(More  cordial  than  ever) 

Miss  Eva  Stannard?  (Miss  Stannard  nods.)  Oh; 
I'm  indeed  glad  to  meet  you. 


Miss  STANNARD 
(Formally  and  a  bit  puzzled} 
Thanks. 


MRS.  FROWDE 
You  know  the  others? 


Miss  STANNARD 
(Cordially) 

Oh,  yes 

(The    others    laugh    a    little    nervously,    nod 
mechanically,  with  ill-concealed  rudeness.) 


AMONG  THE  LIONS  165 

MRS.  FROWDE 
(Nervously) 

Do  have  another  cup  of  tea.  (Pause.)  What  lovely 
weather  we  are  having!  (They  all  agree.)  I  almost 
hate  to  go  to  Florida  this  winter ;  but  it  saves  fuel. 

(Miss  STANNARD  declines  again  and  SILVER- 
TON  takes  the  cup  from  MRS.  FROWDE  to  the 
table,  returning  to  PATRICIA.  There  is  another 
embarrassing  silence  in  which  they  all  look  at 
one  another.  Finally  THE  BROWN  ONE  comes 
to  say  good-bye  to  MRS.  FROWDE,  whose  dis 
comfort  increases  throughout.) 
Must  you  really  go  so  soon? 

THE  BROWN  ONE 

(Pointedly) 

Yes;  I — I  had  expected  to  stay  longer,  but  I've  just 
remembered  a  most  important  engagement. 

THE  BLUE  ONE 
Can't  I  drop  you  on  the  way?    My  car's  waiting. 

MRS.  FROWDE 

(Distressed) 

Must  you,  too?  But  Mr.  Silverton  has  promised 
to  play  again. 

SILVERTON 

(Significantly) 

An  improvisation — prompted  by  the  occasion. 


i66  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

THE  BLUE  ONE 
I'm  to  hear  it  Thursday — remember. 

(As  THE  BLUE  ONE  and  THE  BROWN  ONE 
say  good-bye  to  Miss  STANNARD,  THE  GREEN 
ONE  goes  to  MRS.  FROWDE.  Miss  STANNARD 
being  left  alone,  shows  her  struggle  at  self-con 
trol  and  sits  in  a  chair  unasked.  THE  BROWN 
ONE  and  THE  BLUE  ONE  with  heads  together 
go  out  the  upper  opening.) 

THE  GREEN  ONE 

It's  getting  late.  I've  had  such  a  pleasant  after 
noon.  You  won't  forget  bridge  next  Monday? 

(MRS.  FROWDE  responds  limply  and  as  THE 
GREEN  ONE  turns,  Miss  STANNARD  rises  and 
halts  her  with  a  look.) 

Miss  STANNARD 
Good  afternoon. 

MRS.  FROWDE 
Must  you? 

THE  GREEN  ONE 

Yes,  I'm  going  to  Cartier's  for  the  prizes.  (To 
PATRICIA)  Good  afternoon.  (After  a  moment's  hesita 
tion.)  Good  afternoon,  Miss  Stannard. 

(THE  GREEN  ONE  goes  out  as  Miss  STAN 
NARD  eyes  MRS.  FROWDE  in  silence  while  PA 
TRICIA  and  SILVERTON  speak  unheard.) 


AMONG  THE  LIONS  167 

PATRICIA 

Leave  me  here  alone,  George:  this  is  real.  I've  heard 
about  her. 

SILVERTON 
What  are  you  going  to  do? 

PATRICIA 

The  cats!  There's  something  inside  me  wants  to 
speak.  Run  along.  I'm  feeling  that  rush  of  sincerity 
I  spoke  of. 

SILVERTON 

Mrs.  Frowde,  I  leave  only  because — (as  Miss 
STANNARD  catches  his  eye)  Miss  Stannard,  I'm  sorry 
they  did  not  wait  for  that  improvisation.  But  I'm 
afraid  they  wouldn't  have  understood  the  motif. 

(SILVERTON  goes  out.  PATRICIA  leans  forward 
watching  the  two,  as  MRS.  FROWDE  faces  Miss 
STANNARD.  There  is  an  embarrassing  pause.) 

MRS.  FROWDE 

Really,  I  don't  know  what  to  say.  I  hardly  thought 
you  would  come — under  the  circumstances. 

Miss  STANNARD 
(Fencing  carefully  throughout) 
I'm  dreadfully  sorry.    I  did  not  know  it  was  a  select 
affair.     I  thought  you  were  always  at  home  to  your 
friends. 


i68  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

MRS.  FROWDE 

(Pointedly) 
Friends — yes. 

Miss  STANNARD 

(Sweetly) 
Then  I'm  forgiven? 

MRS.  FROWDE 

I  think  you  must  have  seen  my  friends  did  not  re 
main  after  you  arrived. 

Miss  STANNARD 

I'm  very  sorry;  but  it  is  they  you  should  criticize  for 
being  so  frightfully  inconsiderate  of  you.  (With  a 
sudden  firmness)  And  now  Mrs.  Frowde,  don't  you 
think  you  owe  me  an  explanation? 

MRS.  FROWDE 

(Controlling  herself  with  difficulty) 
I  feel  a  strong  desire  to  give  it,  only  I  hardly  think 
you  would  like  me  to  speak  before 

Miss  STANNARD 

(Sarcastically) 

Strangers?  The  resentment  was  shown  before  Miss 
Tenner,  why  not  the  explanation? 

PATRICIA 

(Appealing  with  the  usual  success  to  their  intimacy.) 
Emily,  dear,  you  forget  you  have  already  spoken  to 
me  of  Miss  Stannard.     (Miss  STANNARD  stiffens.) 


AMONG  THE  LIONS  169 

MRS.  FROWDE 

Wouldn't  it  be  better  if  I  simply  asked  you  not  to 
call  again? 

Miss  STANNARD 
(With  a  note  of  challenge) 
I  must  insist  that  you  tell  me  frankly  the  reason. 

MRS.  FROWDE 
You  insist? 

Miss  STANNARD 
Yes. 

MRS.  FROWDE 

(Bluntly) 
There  has  been  too  much  talk  about  you.     Surely 

you  must  have  realized  your  name  is  on  every  tongue. 

You  know  the  world :  women  can't  do  what  you  have 

done.    You  must  have  been  mad — and  with  a  married 

man  at  that! 

(PATRICIA  eyes  her  keenly.  Miss  STANNARD 
tosses  her  head  defiantly;  but  as  MRS.  FROWDE 
eyes  her  piercingly  she  seems  to  lose  all  her  con 
trol,  begins  to  tremble,  totters,  clutching  the 
back  of  a  chair  and  finally  sinks  with  an  hysteri 
cal  sob  upon  the  sofa,  burying  her  face  in  her 
hands.  Her  vanity-case  rattles  to  the  floor. 
PATRICIA  rises  instinctively  to  go  to  her  but  sits 
again  as  MRS.  FROWDE  motions  her  back  and 
approaches  Miss  STANNARD  less  harshly.) 


170  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

I'm  very  sorry.  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you  like 
this.  Only  one  must  protect  one's  self — one's  friends. 
I  couldn't  have  you  come  here.  (Slowly)  Oh,  well, 
I'm  sure  you  will  see  one  must  draw  the  line  some 
where. 

PATRICIA 
(Impressively) 

Yes,  Emily,  one  must  draw  the  line  somewhere. 
Why  didn't  you  begin  with  me? 

(MRS.    FROWDE   sits   in   astonishment   as   PA 
TRICIA  leans  forward.     There  is  a  long  pause 
till  Miss  STANNARD  looks  up  slowly  in  wonder 
and  curiosity.) 
I  really  don't  see  why  you  discriminate. 

MRS.  FROWDE 
But 

PATRICIA 

If  you  and  your  friends  are  so  shocked  by  Miss 
Stannard's  presence,  why  should  you  tolerate  me?  No 
one  gives  us  stage  people  the  right  to  privacy.  Every 
body  makes  it  their  business  to  retail  our  lives.  We're 
public  property;  so  surely  you  and  your  friends  have 
heard  my  story,  too.  Now,  really,  haven't  you  ? 

MRS.  FROWDE 

(Confused) 
Yes,  but — my  dear  .    .    . 

PATRICIA 

And  what  have  you  heard  about  me?  Let's  see  if 
it  is  correct.  My  name?  It  isn't  my  own.  My  real 


AMONG  THE  LIONS  171 

one  wouldn't  look  well  on  the  advertising.  Besides, 
my  father  hadn't  given  me  any  reason  to  be  proud 
of  it.  My  mother  may  have  been  a  good  soul 
if  I  had  ever  really  known  her.  I've  always  thought 
I  was  an  unwanted  child:  I  hate  children  so  myself. 
But  mother  couldn't  have  been  the  sort  who'd  drink 
with  ease  out  of  your  frail  tea-cups,  and  I'll  warrant 
no  amount  of  coaching  would  have  kept  the  veneer 
from  peeling  wrhen  she  spoke.  I  grew  up  somehow 
among  "  beer  and  skittles,"  as  Trilby  would  say; 
didn't  know  what  pictures  and  teas  and  things  were 
till  I  came  East.  And  do  you  know  how  I  came? 
He  seemed  so  handsome,  too,  in  those  days. 

MRS.  FROWDE 
(Moving  uneasily  as  she  sees  a  grim  smile  come  to 

Miss  STANNARD) 
But,  dear,  you  were  young  and 

PATRICIA 

Oh,  I  knew  better ;  but  I  was  bored — bored  out  there 
and  I  wanted  a  chance  to  live.  We  didn't  get  along 
very  well — he  and  I ;  partly  my  fault.  He  couldn't  be 
happy  with  a  woman  who  also  had  a  spark  of  creation 
tucked  away  in  her  soul.  Then,  besides,  I  had  made 
up  my  mind  I'd  do  something  because  I  had  to  keep 
alive.  I  turned  to  the  stage — most  of  us  poor  fools  do. 
But  I  happened  to  have  a  wray  with  me  and  a  pair  of 
shoulders  that  were  proud  of  my  face.  (Sarcastically.) 
The  critics  called  it  personality.  (Quickly}  I  wonder 
if  you  also  know  I  lived  in  a  five-dollar-a-week  board 
ing-house  with  circus  acrobats  on  the  floor  above,  a  sad 


172  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

soprano  in  a  closet  next  to  mine  and  a  smell  of  cooking 
all  over  so  I  wouldn't  be  lonely?  (Almost  uncon 
sciously  her  voice  at  times  betrays  an  unexpected  com 
monness.}  How  I  hated  it!  How  I  wanted  these 
feathers  and  gilt!  And  every  time  I  made  up  my 
face  in  that  two-by-four  part  I  had,  I  determined  to 
succeed  somehow — anyhow.  I  deserve  every  bit  of 
success  I've  got,  for  I  worked  hard  getting  the  burrs 
out  of  my  speech  and  some  grammar  into  it.  (MRS. 
FROWDE  moves  uncomfortably  again.}  That's  the 
truth.  People  suspected  I  had  a  brain  and  I  had ;  but 
I  wasn't  wasting  it  on  books — I  was  studying  the  hearts 
and  souls  of  the  sort  of  people  I  needed  to  get  along. 
(With  increasing  relish  at  the  effect  of  her  revelations.) 
And  I  saw  to  succeed  in  my  life  I  had  to  grow  hard 
inside  and  soft  out.  So  I  affected  my  husky  voice  and 
my  sad  smile ;  sadness  gave  me  a  touch  of  mystery  and 
encouraged  curiosity.  I  knew  I'd  have  to  keep  my 
face  smooth,  too;  so  I  stopped  feeling  for  others  and 
thought  only  of  myself.  Suffering  isn't  good  for 
the  complexion.  But  I  helped  everybody  in  con 
venient  ways,  because  I  knew  I  could  make  them 
help  me  in  greater.  And  as  I  began  to  get  along  I 
went  out  more  to  teas  and  the  like  so  I  could  meet  the 
people  I  could  use. 

MRS.  FROWDE 
But,  my  dear    .    .    . 

PATRICIA 

Oh,   I'm  not  ungrateful  for  their  kindness,  but  I 
owe  them  nothing,  for  I  repaid  them,  by  letting  them 


AMONG  THE  LIONS  173 

do  things  for  me.  Yes,  it  flattered  them  to  have  me 
about  and  to  say  they  knew  me  "  intimately."  I  was 
a  good  asset  to  their  affairs  because  I  was  a  success. 
Then  I  picked  up  a  lot  of  cant  phrases  about  art  and 
the  like,  so  I  could  prattle;  and  I  even  signed  articles 
which  somebody  else  wrote  lamenting  the  decline  of 
the  stage,  when  I  knew  in  my  heart  I  was  glad  things 
were  as  they  were  because  I  could  make  more  money 
with  a  dramatized  novel  or  a  tailor-made  part  than 
in  my  much  advertised  and  never  intended  appearance 
in  Shakespeare.  (Acting  as  with  apparent  conviction.) 
And  back  of  this,  life  was  calling  me.  So  I  did  other 
things  to  get  along.  My  eyes  were  open  and  so  it  seems 
were  those  of  the  world.  It  envied  me  my  freedom  be 
cause  I  was  a  success.  All  of  us  don't  do  it,  but  I  did 
and  it  wasn't  always  for  love.  (Miss  STANNARD'S 
quick  breath  halts  her  for  a  moment;  then  she  adds 
dramatically)  Yes,  Mrs.  Frowde,  if  you're  going  to 
draw  the  line  somewhere  at  your  teas,  why  don't  you 
begin  with  me? 

MRS.  FROWDE 
(Floundering) 

But — but  you  forget,  dear,  you — you  are  a  great 
creative  artist. 

PATRICIA 

No,  I  don't.  Everybody's  tolerance  of  my  whims, 
my  moods,  my  morals  would  never  let  me  forget  it. 
But  what  has  that  to  do  with  the  right  and  wrong  of 
it?  That's  what  you  are  wandering,  Miss  Stannard. 


174  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

(Miss  STANNARD  gazes  at  her.)  I  don't  ask  any  less 
charity  for  myself  because  my  "  temperament "  has 
made  me  live  my  life  my  own  way;  though  I  don't 
need  charity  now  I'm  on  top.  (Surging  along  effec 
tively.)  But  why  shouldn't  you  and  your  friends  ex 
tend  that  same  charity  to  the  rest  of  the  sinners? 
(PATRICIA  does  not  detect  Miss  STANNARD'S  change  of 
manner  so  intent  is  she  in  her  own  words.)  You  give 
it  to  me  because  I  am  a  creative  artist.  Everybody  has 
a  bit  of  the  artist  in  them.  Some  of  us  use  it  to  make 
bread;  others  use  it  to  make  trouble.  All  the  nice 
sinners  of  the  world  have  the  creative  spirit,  too.  Sin 
is  the  creating  of  the  actual  out  of  the  imagined. 
It's  falling  over  the  fence  in  a  desire  to  see  what  is  on 
the  other  side.  (Consciously  shaping  her  words  and 
manner  to  a  climax.)  But  the  more  so  are  the  sins 
one  does  for  love.  Love  is  the  most  creative  of  all 
impulses.  If  you  forgive  me  because  I'm  an  artist,  as 
you  say;  if  you  can  ask  me  to  sit  beside  your  lily-faced 
daughters  and  stubby-chinned  sons ;  if  you  can  kiss  my 
lips — I,  who  have  openly  violated  all  your  standards 
— why  do  you  turn  against  this  woman,  who  has  done 
what  she  has  for  the  noblest  of  motives — love — the  love 
of  a  man? 

Miss  STANNARD 

(She  has  risen  tensely  and  speaks  with  a  biting  bitter 
ness) 

I  suppose  you  meant  very  well,  Miss  Tenner;  you 
said  it  just  as  though  it  were  a  scene  in  some  play — 
with  the  proper  emphasis  and  pause  and  nice  phrases. 


AMONG  THE  LIONS  175 

But  believe  me,  Mrs.  Frowde  is  right:  we  can't  judge 
people  by  the  same  standards.  (Contemptuously} 
There  is  a  difference  between  you  and  me.  /  feel  it 
myself.  When  I  need  forgiveness  I  shall  only  want 
it  of  my  own  class.  (Scornfully)  The  tolerance  of 
yours  means  nothing  to  me.  (Very  quietly}  I  am 
sorry,  Mrs.  Frowde.  I'll  not  call  again  till  he  and  I 
are  married.  Then,  of  course,  it  will  be  all  right. 
Good-bye. 

(Miss  STANNARD  goes  out  quickly  leaving 
PATRICIA  dumb  at  her  mis-reading  of  the  situa 
tion. 

MRS.  FROWDE,  who  has  been  too  confused 
throughout  to  speak,  now  vents  her  anger  on 
Miss  STANNARD.) 

MRS.  FROWDE 

The  brazen  hussy!  You  see  what  she  is — to  insult 
you  so  after  your  splendid  defense  of  her! 

PATRICIA 
(Slowly) 

She  was  right. 

MRS.  FROWDE 

Not  at  all.  She  doesn't  understand  the  difference 
with  a  lady  of  temperament. 

PATRICIA 

Temperament — oh,  yes.  (She  smiles  sarcastically 
and  then  looks  surprised  at  MRS.  FROWDE.)  And  you 
are  not  angry  with  me? 


176  AMONG  THE  LIONS 

MRS.  FROWDE 
(Affectionately) 

At  you,  my  dear  friend?  Indeed  not.  I  know  you 
didn't  mean  me.  And  besides  I  would  have  understood 
you  if  you  had. 

PATRICIA 

(Eyeing  her  with  undetected  cynicism) 
Yes,  yes.     You  would  have  understood. 

MRS.  FROWDE 
(Impulsively) 

Won't  you  stay  and  have  a  bite  to  eat  with  me — 
all  alone?  I  can  drive  you  to  the  theater. 

PATRICIA 
I  have  an  interview. 

MRS.  FROWDE 
(As  they  walk  to  the  door) 
Too  bad  they  misquote  so. 

PATRICIA 
Yes,  isn't  it?     I've  had  such  a  dear  afternoon. 

MRS.  FROWDE 

(Embracing  her  affectionately) 
And  you'll  come  to  lunch  Tuesday? 

PATRICIA 

(As  though  wishing  to  escape) 
No  I 


AMONG  THE  LIONS  177 

MRS.  FROWDE 
(Solicitously) 

But  Mavosky  will  be  here  and  he's  taken  quite 
fancy  to  you.    Thinks  you'd  make  a  splendid  study. 

PATRICIA 
(Recalling) 

Mavosky!     Oh,  yes.     I  thought  you  said  Wednes 
day  ;  that's  matinee  day.    Tuesday  is  all  right. 

MRS.  FROWDE 
Say  at  two? 

PATRICIA 
I  may  be  a  moment  late. 

MRS.  FROWDE 

We'll  wait  for  you.     (As  they  are  walking  out)  I 
hope  you'll  forget  what  she  said. 

PATRICIA 

Oh,  Miss  Stannard  hasn't  any  temperament.     And 
it  does  make  a  difference,  doesn't  it? 

( They  go  out  leaving  the  room  empty,  with  the 
candles  on  the  table  winking  in  their  sockets.) 


[CURTAIN] 


THE   REASON 


THE  PEOPLE 

LOCKSLEY  RANDOLPH,  a  retired  merchant. 

PAULA,  his  daughter. 

TOM  SABINE,  his  secretary.  , 

MARY  SABINE,   his  secretary's  wife. 


SCENE 

Sitting-room  at  the  Randolph  home  in  a  suburb  of 
the  city;  an  early  winter  night. 


THE    REASON* 

yj  HANDSOMELY    furnished    sitting-room, 

>jj  the  general  entrance  of  which  from  the  floor 
•*•  •*-  below  is  at  the  right.  Beyond  this  a  broad 
window  is  seen  as  the  moonlight  faintly  filters  through 
the  trees  outside.  Directly  opposite,  some  smoldering 
logs  betray  a  fireplace,  near  which  is  another  door  open 
ing  into  PAULA'S  apartments.  Large  double  doors  in 
the  center  open  into  a  hallway  leading  to  library.  A 
telephone  is  on  a  large  writing-table,  upon  which  a 
light,  with  a  luxurious  shade  suspended  above,  casts  a 
strong  yellow  glow.  The  furnishings  show  signs  of 
tasteless  wealth  and  are  devoid  of  any  feminine  touch. 

SABINE  and  RANDOLPH  are  bending  over  some  docu 
ments. 

SABINE  is  about  thirty-three,  clean-shaven  with 
shrewd  eyes  and  a  conspicuously  insinuating  smile.  The 
manner  with  which  he  feels  for  his  words  and  his 
studied  coolness  suggest  a  deep  and  significant  interest 
in  the  developments. 

RANDOLPH  is  fifty,  well-preserved  and  possessing  the 
assurance  of  permanent  prosperity:  he  is  apparently 
without  illusions  as  the  lines  about  his  slightly  pro 
truding  eyes  and  thick  lips  indicate  a  dissipated  life. 

Though  the  two  men  are  obviously  considerate,  there 

*  Copyright  by  George  Middleton.    See  back  of  title  page. 


1 82  THE  REASON 

is  concealed  an  instinctive  mistrust.     They  are  silent  a 
long  while  until  RANDOLPH  looks  up  from  the  papers. 

SABINE 
Anything  else? 

RANDOLPH 
How  long  will  those  compilations  since 

SABINE 
Same  as  the  others. 

RANDOLPH 

A    month    each,    eh?      You've    done    .    .    .    let's 
see    ... 

SABINE 
I've  been  your  secretary  for  three  months. 

RANDOLPH 

And  you've  been  at  these  every  evening — ever  take? 
I  took  you  in. 

SABINE 
I  wouldn't  put  it  that  way. 

RANDOLPH 

You  are  sure  you  can  still  find  all  you  need  in  my 
own  library  here? 

SABINE 
All  I  need — behind  the  closed  doors. 


THE  REASON  183 

RANDOLPH 

(Casually) 

I  shall  see  that  my  orders  not  to  disturb  you  are 
continued. 

SABINE 
I've  noticed  you  never  even  come  yourself. 

RANDOLPH 
I  like  to  think  of  young  genius  being  left  alone. 

SABINE 

(Mock  seriously) 
And  out  of  harm's  way  ? 

RANDOLPH 

Exactly — at  night.      (Half  to   himself.)      Another 
month  will  about  finish  it. 

SABINE 
(Significantly) 
Mr.  Randolph,  you  are  paying  rather  high  for 

RANDOLPH 
(Eyeing  him  quickly) 
For  what? 

SABINE 

(Turning  the  pages  casually) 
Unremunerative  work. 


1 84  THE  REASON 

RANDOLPH 
One  never  pays  too  high  for  what  one  wants. 

SABINE 
Not  at  the  time. 

{They  look  at  each  other:  SABINE  slowly 
gathers  the  papers  together  and  glances  towards 
RANDOLPH  who  is  coolly  staring  before  him. 
There  is  a  quiet  pause.  Then  SABINE  opens 
the  library  door  and  casually  steps  back.} 

Your  daughter.     (Calmly  to  PAULA)  Your  father  is 

here,  Miss  Randolph. 

(PAULA  enters  with  a  book  in  hand.  She  is 
twenty-three  and  charming,  with  a  sweet  inno 
cent  air  which  suggests  a  hedged-in  life.  She 
is  dressed  in  a  simple  tea-gown  and  her  manner 
throughout  is  calm  and  unsophisticated.) 

PAULA 
Good  evening,  Mr.  Sabine. 

RANDOLPH 
Where  have  you  been,  Paula? 

PAULA 
Getting  a  book. 

RANDOLPH 
You  mustn't  read  so  much. 

SABINE 
Anything  further,  Mr.  Randolph,  before  you  go  out? 


THE  REASON  185 

RANDOLPH 

No.     But — but  I  don't  remember  mentioning  that 
I  was  going  out. 

SABINE 
I  thought  you  did.    Good  evening. 

PAULA 

( Good-naturedly  ) 
Is  Mrs.  Sabine  well? 

SABINE 
Not  exactly. 

RANDOLPH 
Indeed? 

SABINE 
(Smiling) 
My  wife  seems  upset  about  something. 

RANDOLPH 
(  Casually ) 

Why,  she  seemed  well  when  she  was  here  last,  didn't 
she,  Paula? 

PAULA 
Yes,  and  so  happy. 

RANDOLPH 
What's  the  trouble  ? 


1 86  THE  REASON 

SABINE 
I'm  not  quite  sure — yet. 

RANDOLPH 
Perhaps  she  needs  a  change. 

SABINE 
I'll  tell  her  you  asked  after  her,  Mr.  Randolph. 

RANDOLPH 

Certainly.     Do.     But  it  was  Miss  Randolph  who 
inquired. 

SABINE 

I  thought  it  was  you.  (He  smiles.)  The  air  in  the 
library  has  affected  me.  (He  smiles.)  Good  evening. 
(He  leaves  the  room,  slowly  closing  the  door. 
There  is  a  pause  as  PAULA  looks  curiously  be 
fore  her,  while  RANDOLPH,  somewhat  puzzled, 
goes  up  to  door  and  sees  that  SABINE  has  gone 
into  the  library  beyond.) 

PAULA 
I  hope  it's  nothing  serious. 

RANDOLPH 
What? 

PAULA 
Mrs.  Sabine. 


THE  REASON  187 

RANDOLPH 
Nothing,  of  course. 

PAULA 
Hasn't  she  told  you? 

RANDOLPH 
Me? 

PAULA 
You're  such  good  friends. 

RANDOLPH 

My  dear,  women  with  attractive  husbands  never 
confide  in  outsiders. 

PAULA 
(Innocently) 
Don't  they? 

RANDOLPH 
(Laughing) 

You  know  so  little  of  life.  (PAULA  sighs  in  agree 
ment.)  And  I  wish  you  to  keep  your  sweetness  until 
you  are  married. 

PAULA 
Doesn't  one  need  it  then? 

RANDOLPH 

You'll  understand  when  the  time  comes,  child. 


i88  THE  REASON 

PAULA 

(Enigmatically  ) 
And  one  mustn't  before ! 


RANDOLPH 

Children  don't  realize  how  they  unconsciously  hold 
parents  to  higher  things:  it's  because  of  you,  for  in 
stance,  more  than  anything  else  since  your  dear  mother 
died,  that  I've  tried  to  keep  my  life  an  example. 

PAULA 

I've  always  had  it  before  me,  father.  (Coming 
closer.)  I'm  deeply  grateful  for  showing  me  what  I, 
too,  should  be. 

RANDOLPH 

Yes,  yes.  (Patting  her.)  Now,  dear,  run  along  to 
bed :  your  eyes  are  tired. 

PAULA 

(Glancing  at  book) 
I'm  fond  of  reading. 

RANDOLPH 

(Humoring  her  throughout) 
What  do  you  like  best? 

PAULA 
(Cheerfully) 
Adventure. 


THE  REASON  189 

RANDOLPH 
With  real  heroes? 

PAULA 

(Referring  to  book) 
I  love  those  who  keep  cool  in  times  of  danger. 

RANDOLPH 

You're  only  a  child,  after  all,  eh?     (He  pats  her 
tenderly  as  she  notices  him  glancing  at  his  watch.) 

PAULA 
( Casually  ) 
You  are  going  out? 

RANDOLPH 
Yes:  some  business. 

PAULA 
Will  you  be  late? 

RANDOLPH 
Do  I  disturb  you? 

PAULA 

I  can  generally  hear  the  machine  from  my  room,  be 
fore  you  turn  up  the  path. 

RANDOLPH 
It's  easy  nowadays  to  go  fast  in  the  dark. 


THE  REASON 

PAULA 

You  will  always  toot  the  horn?  (Reprovingly} 
Think  of  the  danger  to  others. 

RANDOLPH 
Foolish  girl!    There's  no  danger  about  here. 

PAULA 
No;  of  course  not.     (Goes  to  him.)     Good  night. 

RANDOLPH 

Dear,  dear  girl.  (Looking  at  her.)  It's  good  to 
have  such  a  daughter. 

PAULA 

And  such  a  father.  (They  kiss;  the  telephone 
rings.)  Oh,  let  me.  (She  goes  to  phone.)  Good 
evening,  Mrs.  Sabine.  (RANDOLPH  starts  a  bit,  un 
noticed.)  I  thought  you  were  ill.  Mr.  Sabine  was 
telling  father.  I  believe  he's  in  the  library.  Father 
will  take  the  message:  he's  here.  Do  take  care  of 
yourself:  just  think  what  Mr.  Sabine  would  do  if  you 
were  ill.  Good  night. 

(She  hands  receiver  to  father,  who  half  pauses, 
thinking  she  will  leave  the  room;  but  she  lingers 
over  her  book.) 

RANDOLPH 

Good  evening.  (Half  pointedly)  Yes,  my 
daughter  is  here.  Anything  I  can  do?  Do  you  want 
my  advice?  Oh,  whatever  is  wisest.  Of  course  I'll 


THE  REASON  191 

tell  Mr.  Sabine.  I  hope  it's  nothing  serious.  (He 
hangs  up  receiver,  concealing  from  PAULA  his  dis 
pleasure.) 

PAULA 
She  seemed  excited. 

RANDOLPH 

Woman's  nerves. 

PAULA 
Funny  I  never  have  them. 

RANDOLPH 
You're  not  married. 

PAULA 
You're  going  to  see  her? 

RANDOLPH 
She's  on  her  way  here. 

PAULA 
Here?    Then  you  will  tell  Mr.  Sabine  she's  coming? 

RANDOLPH 
Yes.     But  you're  tired,  dear. 

PAULA 

I'll  feel  better  with  my  things  off.  Good  night. 
(She  pauses  at  her  door.)  Father;  she  and  Mr.  Sabine 
are  happily  married,  aren't  they? 


192  THE  REASON 

RANDOLPH 
Of  course,  of  course. 

PAULA 
I'm  glad  to  hear  so. 

RANDOLPH 
Why? 

PAULA 

(Glancing  at  him) 
Then  it  couldn't  be  about  that. 

(She  closes  the  door  softly.  RANDOLPH  looks 
after  her  puzzled,  then  walks  up  and  down 
alone  very  much  irritated.  He  takes  out  his 
check  book,  glancing  through  the  stubs  cyni 
cally.  Then  he  throws  it  back  into  the  table 
drawer.  Finally  he  picks  up  the  phone,  ob 
viously  switching  it.) 

RANDOLPH 

Is  that  you,  Sabine?  You've  found  what  you  want? 
You  won't  need  me  any  more?  Well,  stick  close  to  it. 
I  just  wished  to  see.  Good  night.  (He  switches  it 
off  again  and  impatiently  waits.)  Is  that  you,  Brooks? 
Tell  Toder  to  have  the  car  ready.  I  may  need  it  later. 
No,  the  closed  car — it's  chilly.  Oh,  by  the  way,  (try 
ing  to  be  casual),  in  case  7  should  be  out,  Mr.  Sabine  is 
expecting  Mrs.  Sabine.  Let  her  come  right  up  to  the 
library.  What's  that?  Better  see  who  it  is.  (Show 
ing  displeasure.)  I'll  tell  Mr.  Sabine  myself.  Yes;  if 


THE  REASON  193 

you're  sure  it's  Mrs.  Sabine,  better  let  her  come  up 

here.    That'll  be  all  for  to-night. 

(He  hangs  up  the  receiver,  walks  up  and  down 
again  and  finally  opens  the  hall  door.  There  is 
quite  a  pause  as  he  stands,  smoking  a  cigarette, 
awaiting  her.  Finally,  MRS.  SABINE  enters, 
leaving  the  door  open. 

She  is  in  her  late  twenties,  of  rather  restless 
beauty,  which  under  her  shifting  expression  be 
comes  hard  and  cynical.  She  apparently  has 
little  resistance  and  suggests  a  love  of  excitement 
and  sensation.  Her  manner  is  flighty  though 
worldly.  She  is  handsomely  dressed,  with 
beautiful  furs  upon  her  sensuous  shoulders.) 

RANDOLPH 
(Abruptly) 
What  the  devil  does  this  mean  ? 

MRS.  SABINE 
We're  alone? 

RANDOLPH 
Naturally. 

MRS.  SABINE 
(Half  flippantly) 
I  had  to  see  you. 

RANDOLPH 
Why  here? 


194  THE  REASON 

MRS.  SABINE 
I  couldn't  wait  till  you  came  to  me. 

RANDOLPH 

(With  strained  jocularity) 
Feather  brain;  what's  the  trouble? 

MRS.  SABINE 
Nothing — only  my  husband  knows. 

RANDOLPH 
(Quickly) 
About  us? 

MRS.  SABINE 
He's  known  for  some  time. 

RANDOLPH 
And  he  only  spoke ? 

MRS.  SABIN*E 
To-day. 

RANDOLPH 
The  devil!     (Slowly)  What's  the  reason? 

MRS.  SABINE 

Why  he  kept  silent?     (Shrugging  shoulders)     You 
men  always  have  reasons. 

RANDOLPH 
What  did  he  say? 


THE  REASON  195 

MRS.  SABINE 

(Laughing  cynically) 

He  smiled.     It  was  so  funny  and  so  unexpected. 

RANDOLPH 
(Incredulously) 
He  didn't  make  a  scene? 

MRS.  SABINE 

No.     And   I'd  been   rehearsing  for  weeks  what   I 
should  say. 

RANDOLPH 
But  didn't  he ? 

MRS.  SABINE 

(Bitterly) 
I  tell  you  he  didn't  even  insult  me ! 

RANDOLPH 
Sh! 

(He  looks  towards  his  daughter  s  room  and 
then  crosses  and  closes  the  door  through  which 
MRS.  SABINE  has  entered.) 

MRS.  SABINE 

(After  she  has  watched  him) 
Hasn't  he  spoken  to  you? 

RANDOLPH 
Not  yet. 


196  THE  REASON 

MRS.  SABINE 

That's  like  him.  He  said  he'd  wait  till  I  broke  the 
news  to  you. 

RANDOLPH 
And  then? 

MRS.  SABINE 

Then  he  said  you  would  want  to  see  him  and 
(ominously)  he'd  do  some  talking. 

RANDOLPH 
(Recalling) 

So  that's  why  he  smiled  just  now. — Didn't  he  say 
anything? 

MRS.  SABINE 

He  merely  put  his  hands  on  your  furs.  I  thought 
he'd  believe  I'd  saved  enough  to  buy  them  myself. 
He  stroked  them  once  or  twice  slowly — and  smiled. 
But  he  said  nothing.  Then  he  led  me  to  the  window 
and  pointed  to  your  car — the  extra  one  you  forced 
upon  us — when  you  began.  He  smiled ;  but  he  said 
nothing.  He  picked  up  a  book:  the  work  in  the 
library  was  interesting;  it  kept  him  safe  in  the  long 
winter  evenings.  I  tell  you  he  said  it  all  in  his  smiles 
and  never  a  word.  (Violently)  He  disappointed  me 
so!  I'd  be  sorry  for  him  a  little  if  he'd  only  struck 
me.  God!  I  hate  men  who  only  smile  when  they  are 
angry.  (RANDOLPH  trying  to  quiet  her.)  Oh,  I  hate 
him  with  his  penny  a  year.  I  hate  him  for  asking  me 


THE  REASON  197 

to  marry  him,  and  then  not  even  striking  me  when  he 
found  out  what  I  was! 

RANDOLPH 
But  didn't  you  even  try  to  deny  it? 

MRS.  SABINE 

(Defiantly) 
Why  should  I  deny  it? 

RANDOLPH 
(  Cynically ) 

Of  course  not.  Sooner  or  later,  a  woman  always 
confesses  to  someone. 

MRS.  SABINE 

(Quickly) 

What  did  you  want  me  to  do?  Think  of  you?  I 
was  sick  of  him.  When  I  saw  he  wasn't  going  to 
make  a  fuss,  I  didn't  think  your  well-known  reputa 
tion  would  suffer;  so  I  didn't  care  about  protecting 
myself.  What's  the  difference,  anyhow?  He  can't 
give  me  what  I  want:  you  can.  If  we  can  only  keep 
it  quiet,  nobody  need  know — and  it  wouldn't  even 
reach  your  daughter's  ears. 

RANDOLPH 
(Angrily) 
We'll  not  discuss  her. 

MRS.  SABINE 

No.  She's  a  good  woman — with  her  lily  hands  and 
her  thin  eyebrows.  What  does  she  know  of  life:  the 


198  THE  REASON 

sordid  soapy  hours  ending  with  the  snore  of  a  husband 
you  hate.  Ugh!  (He  walks  up  and  down,  irritated.) 
Well,  then,  what  are  we  going  to  do  to  keep  it  from 
her? 

RANDOLPH 

That  will  depend  on  your  husband  and  whether  he'll 
be  sensible.  (He  goes  to  phone,  switching  it.) 

MRS.  SABINE 
(Looking  before  her) 

You  did  it  beautifully,  Randolph ;  with  such  knowl 
edge  of  me  and  my  kind.  But  don't  take  too  much 
credit.  I'd  have  done  it  with  any  man  who  offered  me 
what  you  did — if  he'd  come  at  the  right  time,  as  you 
did,  and  found  me  at  the  end  of  a  trolley  line  like  this. 

RANDOLPH 

(At  phone) 

Step  here  a  moment,  Sabine.  Yes :  your  wife  is  here. 
(Cynically)  She  said  you'd  be  expecting  her.  (He 
hangs  up  the  receiver.)  You  could  almost  hear  him 
smile. 

MRS.  SABINE 
(Without  self-delusion) 
He  couldn't  hold  me:  he  was  too  poor. 

RANDOLPH 

No:  you're  the  sort  that  needs  a  diamond-studded 
clasp  to  keep  her  morals  fastened  on. 


THE  REASON  199 

MRS.  SABINE 
And  they're  your  specialty. 

RANDOLPH 
I  think  Sabine  and  I  can  make  some  arrangement. 

MRS.  SABINE 

Let's  be  comfortable,  that's  all  I  say.  I'm  so  tired  of 
making  my  lies  fit.  I'm  willing  to  keep  on  with  it. 
Why  not?  It's  all  so  easy  with  a  woman  once  she's 
slipped.  Lots  of  us  would  be  what  I  am  if  they  could 
find  a  man  to  go  through  the  marriage  ceremony  with 
them  first. 

(A  knock  is  heard  at  the  door — it  seems  almost 
sarcastic,  as  it  waits  for  a  reply.) 

RANDOLPH 

Come  in. 

(The   door    opens   softly   and   SABINE    enters 
slowly  and  comes  down  to  them  with  the  same 
smile.     There  is  a  pause.     MRS.   SABINE  re 
mains  tense  and  seated.) 
Have  a  cigarette? 

SABINE 

( They  eye  each  other  as  they  light  up  ) 
Thanks. 

RANDOLPH 
(Coming  to  the  point) 
You 


200  THE  REASON 

SABINE 

(Puffing  throughout) 
Yes. 

RANDOLPH 
Well? 

SABINE 
I  repeat  the  word — well? 

RANDOLPH 
You  will  come  to  an  understanding? 

SABINE 
Which  means? 

RANDOLPH 
You  are — shall  I  say  agreeable? 

SABINE 
You  love  my  wife? 

RANDOLPH 
(Courteously) 
Naturally. 

SABINE 
And  you,  Mary? 

MRS.  SABINE 
Would  a  woman  do  what  I've  done  without  love? 


THE  REASON  201 

SABINE 


Never. 


RANDOLPH 
Well,  say  something. 

SABINE 
(Calmly) 
It  seems  very  simple. 

RANDOLPH 
Which  means? 

SABINE 

That  I'd  still  like  to  complete  the  compilations  in 
your  library. 

MRS.  SABINE 
(Rising,  astonished) 
You're  even  willing  to  stay  here? 

RANDOLPH 
(Quickly) 
And  live  ostensibly  at  home — with  your  wife? 

SABINE 
(Calmly) 

Why  not  ?    I  have  no  place  else  to  go  and  she  merely 
wishes  to  be  comfortable. 

RANDOLPH 
(Relieved) 
You  will  not  make  a  fuss? 


202  THE  REASON 

SABINE 
I'm  sorry  to  disappoint  my  wife. 

RANDOLPH 
You  will  not  let  my  daughter  discover? 

SABINE 
No.     I  consider  your  position  embarrassing  enough. 

RANDOLPH 
(Eyeing  him) 
So  your  wife  is  worth  nothing  to  you? 

SABINE 
(Quickly) 
You're  mistaken  there. 

MRS.  SABINE 
Thanks.    But  how? 

SABINE 
Protection. 

MRS.  SABINE 
Against  what? 

SABINE 
Against  Mr.  Randolph. 

RANDOLPH 
Me? 


THE  REASON  203 

SABINE 
Exactly. 

RANDOLPH 
What  the  devil  are  you  driving  at? 

SABINE 

Perhaps  if  I  take  it  kindly  now,  you  will  not  blame 
me — in  the  future. 

MRS.  SABINE 

Oh,  I  know  we'll  get  tired  of  each  other  if  that's 
what  you're  suggesting. 

SABINE 

(Detecting  an  agreeing  look  in  RANDOLPH'S  face ) 
That  may  be  what  I  mean.      (Eyeing  RANDOLPH 

keenly  as  he  sees  her  bite  her  lips.)     If  that's  all,  I'll 

return  to  the  library. 

RANDOLPH 
Have  you  no  suggestions? 

SABINE 

(Coldly) 

Be  careful  not  to  make  a  fool  of  me — in  public. 

MRS.  SABINE 
There  speaks  the  man. 

RANDOLPH 
Then  you'll  be  silent? 


204  THE  REASON 

SABINE 
Until 

RANDOLPH 
Until? 

SABINE 
Until  you  get  your  deserts. 

RANDOLPH 
A  threat? 

SABINE 
(Smiling) 
No.     Only  I  know  my  wife. 

MRS.  SABINE 

And  that's  the  sort  of  man  I  married.     ( To  SABINE) 
Do  you  blame  me  for  throwing  you  over? 

SABINE 
Havel? 

MRS.  SABINE 
(Indignantly) 
How  dared  you  open  me  to  this? 

RANDOLPH 
Don't  blame  him,  Mary. 

MRS.'  SABINE 
(Indignantly) 
You  knew,  and  you  let  him  steal  your  wife. 


THE  REASON  205 

SABINE 
Some  men  like  their  women  that  way. 

MRS.  SABINE 

Isn't  it  funny!  It's  losing  its  romance — being 
handed  over  like  some  food  at  supper.  Isn't  it  funny 
— and  disappointing. 

RANDOLPH 
I  can't  say  I  admire  you,  Sabine. 

SABINE 

No,  you  can't.  But  you  will  when  you  know  my 
wife  better. 

MRS.  SABINE 
(Losing  control) 

I'm  more  ashamed  of  you  than  I  am  of  myself.  Why 
didn't  you  stop  me  if  you  knew?  What's  the  reason? 
Why  didn't  you  strike  me?  Why  didn't  you,  so  I 
could  feel  you  and  I  were  quits?  Why  didn't  you — 
like  that  and  that.  (She  strikes  him  furiously  with  her 
gloves  once  or  twice,  but  he  continues  smiling.) 

RANDOLPH 
Mary,  don't  let's  have  a  scene.     Sh ! 

MRS.  SABIXE 

I  wanted  a  scene!  And  to  think  I  wasn't  even  worth 
insulting! 

(She  goes   out  quickly,   leaving   the  hall  door 
open.     She  has  dropped  her  glove  and  as  RAN- 


206  THE  REASON 

DOLPH,  with  a  resigned,  half -bored  air,  starts 
to  follow  her,  SABINE  stoops,  picks  up  the 
glove  and,  smiling,  halts  RANDOLPH.) 

SABINE 

My  wife  dropped  her  glove.  Will  you  take  it  to 
her?  I  have  my  work,  and,  as  you  remarked,  another 
month  will  about  finish  it. 

RANDOLPH 

(Smiling  in  spite  of  himself} 

Life  would  be  so  much  simpler  if  all  husbands  were 
so  considerate. 

SABINE 
The  spice  would  be  gone. 

RANDOLPH 
I  suppose  she  is  waiting 

SABINE 
— for  the  glove.     (Offering  it  to  him.) 

RANDOLPH 
( Taking  it) 
Yes:  for  her  glove. 

SABINE 
I'm  glad  you  will  drive  in  the  closed  car. 

RANDOLPH 
(At  the  door) 
Our  reputations  must  be  protected. 


THE  REASON  207 

SABINE 
No  man  likes  to  be  made  a  fool  of. 

RANDOLPH 
(Slowly) 

After  all,  she's  only  a  woman  and  they're  all  alike, 
eh? 

SABINE 
(Slowly) 
All  alike.    Yes. 

RANDOLPH 
(  Casually  ) 
You'll  find  the  cigarettes  on  the  table. 

SABINE 
Thanks. 

(RANDOLPH  goes  out,  closing  the  door. 
SABINE  stands  a  moment,  then  turns  to  the  win 
dow  and  looks  off  till  he  sees  the  car  has  driven 
away.  He  turns  down  the  light  and  then  cross 
ing  eagerly,  he  knocks  on  PAULA'S  door.  He 
repeats  this.) 
Paula!  Paula!! 

(He  stands  waiting.) 


[CURTAIN] 


THE    HOUSE 


THE  PEOPLE 

CHARLES  RAY,  a  professor  of  philosophy. 
ELIZABETH,  his  wife. 


SCENE 
A  room  in  an  apartment  hotel  suite.    One  evening. 


THE    HOUSE* 

r\ROFESSOR  AND  MRS.  RAY  are  at  the  little 
m~"^  table  finishing  their  coffee.  In  the  center  there 
is  a  white-robed  birthday  cake  u'ith  three  golden 
candles  sending  a  gentle  light  on  them.  A  myriad  of 
faint  wrinkles  on  the  PROFESSOR'S  kindly  face  might 
betray  his  age,  though  his  thin  body,  in  spite  of  its 
slight  stoop,  belies  his  seventy  years.  As  he  sits  there 
precisely  dressed  in  his  evening  clothes,  he  is  the  person 
ification  of  fine  breeding,  the  incarnation  of  all  that 
blood  and  culture  can  produce.  And  through  it  all, 
there  glows  an  alluring  whimsy  which  on<e  has  no  right 
to  expect  in  a  professor  of  philosophy. 

MRS.  RAY,  gowned  also  for  the  ceremony  they  are 
celebrating,  is  ten  years  younger;  soft  and  gentle,  too, 
yet  sadder  somehow,  as  though,  in  spite  of  her  effort  to 
live  in  his  enthusiasms,  it  has  become  a  bit  difficult  to 
sustain  his  mood  of  happiness. 

But  as  they  sip  their  coffee  alone  in  the  hotel  suite 
with  its  conventional  furnishings  of  a  stereotyped  com 
fort,  graced  only  by  a  large  bunch  of  white  roses,  one 
senses  the  deep  and  abiding  affection  which  has  warmed 
their  long  life  together. 

*  Copyright  by  George  Middleton.    See  back  of  title  page. 


2i2  THE  HOUSE 

PROFESSOR 

(With  a  sigh  of  contentment) 
Ah! 

(He  sees  she  is  thoughtful:  he  reaches  over  and 
takes  from  behind  the  table  the  quart  bottle  of 
champagne.  He  pours  a  little  in  her  glass.) 

MRS.  RAY 
Oh,  dear;  I'm  afraid  I've  had  enough. 

PROFESSOR 
Nonsense. 

MRS.  RAY 
But  I'm  beginning  to  feel  it. 

PROFESSOR 

That's  the  intention.  (Filling  his  glass.)  There. 
Now  a  toast.  (Standing  with  the  greatest  gallantry.) 
Here's  to  my  comrade  of  forty  years:  may  we  have  as 
many  more  together. 

MRS.  RAY 

Oh,  Charles,  I'm  afraid  that's  asking  too  much  of 
Providence. 

PROFESSOR 
We  should  ask  much  and  be  satisfied  with  less. 

MRS.  RAY 
(Raising  her  glass) 
To  my  friend  and  husband. 


THE  HOUSE  213 

PROFESSOR 
You  make  a  distinction  ? 

MRS.  RAY 
The  world  does. 

• 

PROFESSOR 

What  is  the  world  doing  here  on  our  wedding  anni 
versary?  (Seriously)  Let's  drink  to  each  other — and 
the  children. 

MRS.  RAY 

(Wistfully  looking  at  the  candles) 
And  the  children. 

(They  sip:  he  shows  he  enjoys  it;  she  sits 
thoughtfully  while  he  takes  out  his  cigarette 
case.  He  starts  to  take  onef  and  then,  with 
a  twinkle  in  his  eyes,  offers  her  the  case.) 

PROFESSOR 
Cigarette,  dear? 

MRS.  RAY 

(Smiling) 

No :  thank  you.    I  shan't  begin  at  my  time  of  life. 

PROFESSOR 

Cato  learned  Greek  at  eighty.  The  minute  people 
cease  to  learn — even  a  vice — they  have  begun  to  grow 
old.  So  beware. 


214  THE  HOUSE 

MRS.  RAY 

(Striking  a  match) 
Let  me  light  it  for  you. 

PROFESSOR 
(Slyly) 

Which  illustrates  a  woman's  part  in  life:  encourag 
ing  vice  in  men,  eh?  (He  lights  it  and  puffs  in  en 
joyment.)  I  must  say  I  like  my  idea  about  the  cake 
and  the  candles. 

MRS.  RAY 

It's  lovely,  dear.  Who  but  you  would  have  thought 
of  having  a  birthday  cake  on  our  wedding  anniversary. 

PROFESSOR 

I  started  to  put  forty  candles :  one  for  each  year ;  but 
there  was  no  room  left  for  the  cake. 

MRS.  RAY 
I  like  the  idea  of  three — just  three. 

PROFESSOR 

Yes;  three  birthdays  that  meant  so  much  in  our  time 
together:  Teddy,  Mary  and  Paul. 

MRS.  RAY 

Forty  years! 

PROFESSOR 

It's  a  long  while  to  be  married,  dear.  Speaks  well 
for  our  patience,  eh? 


THE  HOUSE  215 

MRS.  RAY 
And  not  a  word  to-night  from  our  three  children. 

PROFESSOR 
(Waving  it  aside) 

After  all,  our  marriage  didn't  concern  them — at  the 
time. 

MRS.  RAY 
And  we  never  forget  their  anniversaries. 

PROFESSOR 

But  think  how  important  those  have  always  been 
from  the  beginning:  each  one  the  start  of  a  great  ad 
venture  for  us. 

MRS.  RAY 

And  more  responsibility. 

PROFESSOR 

Certainly.  Isn't  that  the  way  we  have  broadened 
our  lives?  Think,  dear,  of  how  many  times  we  have 
been  young — once  with  our  own  youth  and  three  times 
with  our  candles. 

MRS.  RAY 

(She  rises  and  goes  to  the  roses  which  she  inhales) 
And  our  hair  is  white. 

PROFESSOR 

(Gallantly  rising  also) 

That  can't  be  blamed  on  the  children.  White  hair 
doesn't  indicate  marriage — always.  It's  a  matter  of 
pigment,  I'm  told,  and  affects  bachelors  equally. 


216  THE  HOUSE 

MRS.  RAY 

You're  right,  of  course,  dear.    We  have  kept  young 
through  having  our  children;  only 

PROFESSOR 
(Coming  to  her) 

Only  what?    Surely  there  isn't  a  regret  as  you  look 
back? 

MRS.  RAY 

Oh,  no,  not  regret ;  only  so  many  of  our  dreams  have 
never  been  realized. 

PROFESSOR 

(As  he  breaks  off  a  rose  and  gives  it  to  her) 
But  we  have  dreamed;  that's  the  important  thing, 
isn't  it  ? 

MRS.  RAY 
(Looking  at  rose) 
I  suppose  so. 

PROFESSOR 

Of  course  it  is,  dear.     And  we  have  dreamed  more 
than  most  because  we  have  been  young  four  times. 

MRS.  RAY 

(As  she  crosses  to  the  sofa) 
But  it's  always  been  through  others — for  others. 

PROFESSOR 
But  now  it  is  for  ourselves. 


THE  HOUSE  217 

MRS.  RAY 
(Smiling) 
You  mean  our  house? 

PROFESSOR 

Yes.  Now  that  they've  retired  me  with  a  pension 
and  our  children  no  longer  need  our  help,  we  can 
build  our  house. 

MRS.  RAY 
(Wearily,  as  she  sits) 
We  have  built  so  many  houses. 

PROFESSOR 

Yes.  Life's  an  experiment.  Remember  the  first 
little  cottage  where  Teddy  was  born?  It  didn't  leave 
us  much  margin  even  though  it  was  small.  Come  to 
think  of  it,  dear,  we've  built  three  houses,  haven't  we? 

MRS.  RAY 

It's  the  fourth  we've  really  thought  of  most — and 
that  hasn't  been  built  yet. 

PROFESSOR 

That's  to  be  ours — all  ours;  with  room  for  the 
children  if  they  want  to  come  back. 

MRS.  RAY 

Oh,  that's  it:  they  won't  come  back  now.  Our  house 
won't  suit  them. 


218  THE  HOUSE 

PROFESSOR 

(Taking  a  chair  over  near  her) 
How  can  we  expect  them  to  come  into  a  house  that 
isn't  even  built?    You  know  our  modern  children  are 
very  peculiar.     They  get  that  from  you. 

MRS.  RAY 

Nonsense.     It's  you  who  are  peculiar.    Just  look  at 
the  kind  of  house  you  want. 

PROFESSOR 
(Doubtfully) 
It  is  different  from  yours,  I'll  admit. 

MRS.  RAY 

I  don't  object  to  the  architecture.    It's  the  surround 
ings  you  insist  on. 

PROFESSOR 
You  want  the  city  and  I  want  the  forest. 

MRS.  RAY 
(Shaking  her  head) 
We'll  never  agree. 

PROFESSOR 

(As  though  with  an  inspiration) 
I  have  a  solution.     I'll  live  in  your  city  house,  if 
you'll  have  my  forest  around  it. 

MRS.  RAY 

I'm  afraid,  dear,  that  is  a  bit  impractical  at  present 
prices. 


THE  HOUSE  219 

PROFESSOR 

(With  a  whimsical  smile) 

But  we  certainly  can't  have  the  city  you  love  around 
my  house  in  the  woods!  I'm  afraid  of  the  streets. 

MRS.  RAY 
Any  friendly  policeman  would  help  you  across  them. 

PROFESSOR 

Think  of  me  walking  arm  in  arm  with  a  policeman ! 
I  must  consider  my  reputation,  even  though  I  am 
seventy.  No.  (With  a  twinkle.)  I  can't  seem  to 
visualize  the  house,  can  you,  dear? 

MRS.  RAY 
It  isn't  like  your  dream  or  mine. 

PROFESSOR 

No.  I'd  have  a  hard  time  finding  my  birch  trees  in 
the  moonlight.  Have  you  ever  noticed  how  lovely 
they  are  when  the  leaves  have  all  gone  ? 

MRS.  RAY 

Somehow  they  are  no  more  lovely  than  the  sense 
of  life  in  the  tall  ugly  buildings  man  has  built  with 
his  own  hands. 

PROFESSOR 
But  trees  are  eternal. 

MRS.  RAY 

That's  where  we  differ.  I  live  in  to-day :  you  live  in 
all  time. 


220  THE  HOUSE 

PROFESSOR 

That's  my  profession.  You  lose  count  of  time  when 
you  are  a  philosopher. 

MRS.  RAY 
And  I  am  a  woman  of  the  world. 

PROFESSOR 

(As  he  goes  to  light  another  cigarette  from  the  candles) 
I'd  hardly  describe  you  that  way,  my  dear;  that 
sounds  so  naughty. 

MRS.  RAY 

I  mean  I  love  every  minute  that  passes  and  every 
thing  the  moment  brings.  I  love  the  people  who  are 
of  that  moment. 

PROFESSOR 
You  still  dream  of  having  a  salon  of  celebrities  ? 

MRS.  RAY 
(Smiling) 

It's  no  worse  than  the  museum  of  antiquities  on  your 
book  shelves.  But  I  keep  forgetting  you  want  your 
house  in  the  forest  so  you  can  write  about  the  dead. 

PROFESSOR 
And  you  want  your  house  in  the  city  for  the  living. 

MRS.  RAY 
I  wish  we  could  compromise  somehow. 


THE  HOUSE  221 

PROFESSOR 

If  we  only  had  more  money  I  could  do  away  with 
the  wilderness  and  content  myself  with  a  few  wooded 
acres,  I  suppose.  Only  it  must  be  roomy  where  the 
winds  can  speak.  And  I  must  have  some  wild  things 
about.  Though  perhaps  I  could  compromise  on  a  pet 
squirrel,  if  necessary.  (He  smiles.)  And  if  I  met 
you  that  far  do  you  think  you  would  be  willing  to  live 
an  hour  or  so  from  the  city? 

MRS.  RAY 

Why,  of  course.  But  haven't  we  been  looking  for 
that  sort  of  place  for  years;  even  when  we  weren't  free 
to  live  where  we  wished? 

PROFESSOR 

I  can't  see  why  money  is  always  getting  in  the  way 
of  our  dreams.  I  often  wonder  what  scoundrel  it  was 
who  first  invented  money. 

MRS.  RAY 

And  yet  we  might  now  be  able  to  have  what  we 
wished  if 

PROFESSOR 
If?  The  eternal  if? 

MRS.  RAY 

(She  has  gone  to  the  table,  placing  rose  there) 
I  was  thinking  of  all  we  gave  up  for  our  children. 


222  THE  HOUSE 

PROFESSOR 
Wasn't  it  jolly? 

MRS.  RAY 

While  we  still  dreamed  of  the  house  we  two  would 
build  for  ourselves. 

PROFESSOR 
With  rooms  for  them,  don't  forget  that. 

MRS.  RAY 
And  now  where  are  our  children? 

PROFESSOR 

Living — maybe  dreaming  a  bit  of  our  dreams  and 
not  knowing  it  is  ours.  That's  the  lovely  thing  about 
dreams:  I  like  to  think  they  are  never  lost. 

MRS.  RAY 

Yet  here  we  sit  alone  on  our  anniversary  and  they 
have  forgotten. 

PROFESSOR 
The  young  have  so  many  things  to  remember. 

MRS.  RAY 

And  we  can  never  build  our  house  now. 

PROFESSOR 

Nonsense.  We  can  go  on  building  it  just  as  though 
it  were  really  possible.  Come,  little  mother,  let's  be 


THE  HOUSE  223 

young  together  to  the  end.  I'll  have  to  throw  another 
log  on  this  make-believe  open  fire  in  my  house.  (He 
pulls  the  sofa  around  so  it  faces  the  radiator  which  he 
eyes  dubiously.)  Hm!  That  won't  stimulate  the 
imagination.  Wait!  I  know. 

(He  goes  over  to  the  table  and  smiling  quaintly 
he  lifts  up  the  cake  with  its  three  burning 
candles  and  carefully  places  it  on  the  low  radia 
tor.  Then  he  presses  a  switch  on  wall  nearby 
and  the  lights  overhead  go  out,  leaving  only  the 
candle  Sj  a  desk  lamp  and  the  moonlight  through 
the  window  to  give  the  shadows  life.  He  laughs 
and  warms  his  hands  before  the  candles  as  he 
would  before  a  fire.) 

Come,  dear,  before  my  fire!  By  the  way,  is  there  a 
log  fire  in  your  dream-house,  dear? 

MRS.  RAY 

(Smiling  and  fitting  in  with  his  fancy) 
If  you  are  to  be  with  me,  of  course. 

PROFESSOR 

Well  then  we  have  a  blazing  fire  in  both  our  houses, 
eh?  (He  sits  beside  her  o'n  sofa  and  they  gaze  at 
candles. )  And  how  economical  fuel  is  when  you  dream 
about  it.  I've  got  a  whole  forest  waiting  to  be  cut  by 
me,  to-morrow,  after  I've  worked  all  morning  on  my 
new  book. 

MRS.  RAY 
And  I've  been  to  the  musicale  at  the  Biltmore. 


224  THE  HOUSE 

PROFESSOR 
What  did  you  do  this  afternoon,  dear? 

MRS.  RAY 

(Tapping  his  arm) 
Oh,  I  had  a  brilliant  reception. 

PROFESSOR 
Receptions  are  always  brilliant. 

MRS.  RAY 

But  this  one  really  was.  I  had  Andre  Gidet  and 
Arsene  Tailleur  there.  They  are  those  clever  new 
writers  all  Paris  is  talking  about. 

PROFESSOR 

You  didn't  enjoy  their  witticisms  more  than  I  did  a 
pesky  little  bluejay  that  made  fun  of  me  as  I  fished  in 
my  emerald  lake. 

MRS.  RAY 

But  surely  even  you  would  have  envied  me  my  dinner 
when  the  celebrated  Mary  Mevin  explained  her  new 
symphony. 

PROFESSOR 

Nonsense,  dear.  Think  of  grilled  trout  caught  by 
my  own  hand !  And  then  the  long  lazy  silent  hours 
afterwards  with  Aristotle.  Nice  chap,  Aristotle:  knew 
a  heap  about  men  and  things,  though  he  lived  in  an 
age  when  there  wasn't  so  much  to  remember  as  there 


THE  HOUSE  225 

is  now.  Then  afterwards  I  confess  I  yawned  with 
the  comfort  of  it  all;  good,  deep-reaching  yawns,  as 
Nature  intended.  I  went  out  to  see  my  friends  the 
stars.  Best  friends  a  man  ever  had:  a  bit  cold  and 
distant,  perhaps;  but  always  there  behind  the  clouds. 
(She  has  risen  and  gone  to  the  candles.  There  is  a 
pause.  Then  she  snuffs  them  out.)  And  I  suppose 
at  the  same  time  you  were  trying  in  vain  to  find  them 
out  your  city  window?  (Sees  she  is  sobbing  very 
quietly:  the  candles  are  out.)  Why,  dear!  What's 
the  trouble? 

MRS.  RAY 

Oh,  I  can't  pretend  any  more.  Our  log  fire  isn't 
real.  Here  we  are  all  alone  in  a  hotel  apartment 
— before  an  old  steam  radiator  and  electric  light. 
(Presses  the  switch  again.) 

PROFESSOR 

(Tenderly  and  seriously) 

I  know.  You  left  all  that  which  might  have  been 
yours  ..  if  ...  if  you  hadn't  married  me. 

MRS.  RAY 

And  you — without  me  and  the  children — you  might 
have  had  your  dream  now. 

PROFESSOR 
(Very  seriously) 

No,  dear.  One  never  can  realize  them:  that's  why 
they  are  called  dreams. 


226  THE  HOUSE 

MRS.  RAY 

(Goes  to  him  looking  up  into  his  face) 
You  know,  I  wouldn't  have  given  up  one  hour  of  my 
life  with  you. 

PROFESSOR 

(Stroking  her  hair  tenderly) 
We  have  been  very  happy. 

MRS.  RAY 

Yet  why  is  there  something  we  both  feel  we  have 
missed  ? 

PROFESSOR 

Because  even  the  happy  must  be  incomplete  or  else 
they  would  cease  to  be  happy.  Isn't  happiness  hope  as 
much  as  realization  ?  We  have  realized — not  ourselves 
completely — yet  through  each  other.  We  have  been 
what  the  other  sought.  But  only  the  very  wise  know 
that  there  is  an  inner  life  no  one  can  be  part  of:  a 
lonely  place  where  even  the  dearest  can  not  enter,  be 
cause  it  is  a  lonely  place. 

MRS.  RAY 
Yes.    I  think  that  is  the  way  it  is  with  me,  dear. 

PROFESSOR 

And  the  way  it  is  with  our  house  we  shall  never 
build.  We  can't  enter  it  together. 

MRS.  RAY 

(Looking  before  her} 
Yet  I  can  still  see  my  house. 


THE  HOUSE  227 

PROFESSOR 

As  clearly  as  I  do  mine.  (Looking  whimsically  over 
at  the  smoking  candles.)  Even  though  our  own  log 
fire  is  burned  out. 

MRS.  RAY 
(Smiling) 
It's  changed  somewhat  these  forty  years. 

PROFESSOR 

Yes.  That's  the  way  dream-houses  have.  (Taking 
her  hand.)  And,  dear  one,  when  we  each  think  of 
our  houses  we  can  never  build,  let's — let's  always  go  on 
holding  each  other's  hand,  eh? 

MRS.  RAY 
Dearest    .    .    . 

PROFESSOR 

So  many  people  lose  each  other  when  they  dream. 
(He   kisses   her   tenderly.) 


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